


love like fools

by lily_winterwood



Series: the promise i'll make [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Journalism, Alternate Universe - Roman Holiday Fusion, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Happy Ending, Light Angst, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Midsummer, Mistaken Identity, Modern Royalty, Multimedia, Mutual Pining, Phone Sex, Prince Katsuki Yuuri, Reporter Victor Nikiforov, Russian Culture, Saint Petersburg, Slow Burn, Travelogue, Vicchan Lives, White Nights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-25 16:25:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 41,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12039732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_winterwood/pseuds/lily_winterwood
Summary: When Crown Prince Yuuri of Japan escapes his army of minders at his Saint Petersburg hotel, he thinks he’s found the opportunity to explore the city as a commoner.When investigative journalist Viktor Nikiforov discovers the Crown Prince of Japan on a park bench in Saint Petersburg, he thinks that he’s found his ticket to redemption at the magazine he writes for.But like the stories of those stranded during the White Nights after the bridges go up, neither of them had anticipated falling in love. (Roman Holiday AU)





	1. vodka tastes better in saint petersburg

**Author's Note:**

> So I may have caved to the inevitable. This started as a prompt dropped by exile-wrath on Tumblr and now it's a monster, save me.
> 
> Anyway, couple little notes: I don’t know if you can access the roof of the Belmond Grand Hotel Europe in Saint Petersburg, but I did try my hardest to find out before I said fuck it. Let’s pretend you can.
> 
> Also some details about the Japanese Imperial Family have also been fudged (like how most male members need -hito in their name, and that women can’t inherit the Chrysanthemum Throne) for the sake of this AU. Sorry about that, too!

****His Imperial Highness Yuuri, Crown Prince of Japan, is floating.

He’s not exactly sure what Minako had put into his tea. His Grand Master ( _Grand_ _Minder_ , Yuuri thinks vaguely) had sworn it was a tonic for his nerves, but it tastes like alcohol and it burns through him like alcohol, and maybe he’d wrested an entire bottle of vodka from her because there is an Imperia bottle discarded at the foot of his bed. And at some point he’d given up on a teacup.

He wants out of this stuffy hotel suite, wants to drink in the summertime festivities of the city below. His Eastern European goodwill tour had taken him from Moscow to Saint Petersburg, and from there he’d eventually go on to the Ukraine, Romania, Bulgaria, and a list of other countries and cities that he can’t be arsed to remember right now. It’d been nothing but meetings and greetings, hand-shaking and ribbon cutting and baby kissing until his lips felt chapped and his fingers ached. The only time he’s had to himself were the ten-minute respites driving from location A to location B, and these lonely nights in presidential suites of grand hotels in the heart of cities he was never meant to explore as an ordinary person.

He needs some air. He needs to clear his head. But there’s a bodyguard already positioned on his balcony, so instead he decides to head up to the roof. It’s almost an ordeal and half, navigating himself through these ornately-furnished rooms of this presidential suite until he reaches the cloakroom to fetch his jacket and scarf, but eventually he gets them on over his t-shirt and sweatpants and tiptoes on over to the foyer.

When he does finally get to the front door, he has to tell the chamberlains and bodyguards in the little security room off to the side that he needs to take a walk, and not to tell Minako. He can hear a guard following at a distance, though, as he heads down the hallway towards the lifts and the service stairwell that will take him up to the top. It makes him wrap the scarf around him tighter, obscuring half of his face from view as he slips into the stairwell.

Out on the roof, Saint Petersburg spreads out below him, a brisk sea breeze blowing wildly at his hair as he breathes in the summer air. It’s mid-June now, right in the middle of the time of the year when the sun never truly sets over the horizon of the Neva. True to form, the sky is still a dusky sun-stained pink despite it being almost eleven. Down below revellers fill the streets and trams, shouting and cheering in a mix of languages. Yuuri longs to be one of those people, swept up in something bigger than himself. Ordinary, easily lost in a crowd.

Instead, he shivers in spite of his jacket, his hands gripping at the railing of the roof as he looks out at the shining multicoloured spirals of the Church of the Saviour on Spilled Blood rising past a sea of lush green foliage, at the other elegant buildings surrounding his hotel like bars in a gilded cage. As he watches a flock of seagulls soar past, his heart suddenly seizes with the longing to be like them. To fly free of his responsibilities and duties for just one day.

One day without people shepherding him into place and speeches about ‘peace and prosperity’ and ‘fostering good relations between Japan and Russia’. One day where he can just be Yuuri, ordinary Japanese tourist, and not the Crown Prince of an entire nation.

But he knows that won’t be feasible. He has lunch with President Baranovskaya tomorrow, a tour of the new Toyota plant on the outskirts of the city, a meet and greet with the press corps. Just the thought of each of these things makes him want to scream, makes him want to jump over the railing — except that would probably lead to his death, and he’s not interested in _that_ sort of freedom just yet.

He sways a little, noticing that his bodyguards are just standing at the door to the stairwell, waiting for him to return to his room. He looks away, noticing that on the other side of the roof there’s another stairwell door.

And in that moment, with a dangerous, reckless idea burning through him, he turns tail and _runs_.

* * *

Viktor Nikiforov is late on his story for the gossip section of _Stammi Vicino Quarterly_.

Based on the near-emptiness of his bottle of vodka, he knows that fairly well. The problem is, this is his only bottle and it’s not nearly enough to get him to throw all caution to the wind and finish his article on the Crown Prince of Japan’s visit to Saint Petersburg.

The corner store closes in ten minutes. He can make it if he rushes; he just needs one more bottle. Not even a big bottle — he just needs to be the right amount of buzzed for this article to get out of him. Never mind the fact that when he started out in journalism he hadn’t needed to drink to do his damn job.

(Never mind the fact that when he started out, he had been writing articles of actual importance. But that’s neither here nor there.)

So Viktor puts on a light coat and tiptoes out of his den to the door, nearly tripping over the slumbering form of his poodle Makkachin on his way out his apartment. The walk down the five flights of stairs to the downstairs landing is swift in the dimly-sunlit corridor. He can hear the rest of the tenants in this apartment building settling down for the night — or, in the case of the girls chattering on the third floor and the couple on the second, just getting started. Said couple’s moans echo along behind him as he rushes through the last flight of stairs before the ground floor.

Once he reaches the building doors, however, just nipping down for a bottle and then returning to his apartment of solitude suddenly feels like a terrible idea. With the sudden urge to stroll through the streets burning brightly in his mind, he rushes back up to his flat to wake his poodle.

Makkachin at first seems disgruntled, but he perks up as soon as Viktor opens the door for him. And though Viktor’s leg muscles are burning a bit from the sprint back up to the fifth floor of this old apartment building, he lets Makkachin lead him back down the stairs again, clattering past the couple on the second floor loud enough to make them pause.

Makkachin’s tail wags cheerily as they head out into the brisk summer twilight. It’s the White Nights, so of course there are no stars visible, but Viktor pretends that they’re wheeling overhead anyway as the two of them make their way through familiar cobblestoned streets. He’s content to let his dog do most of the leading, and Makkachin is just as eager to wander down trails of interesting new scents.

Their joint meandering takes them to the front steps of the local church with its golden spires and domes currently glinting in the midnight sunset. There’s a man in the park out in front, fingers scrabbling against one of the benches as he sways, humming a tune to himself. Viktor makes a grab for Makkachin’s collar, trying to lead him away, but the man’s face breaks out into a wide grin at the sight of the poodle, and Makkachin immediately goes scampering over. He had always been a sucker for friendly-looking strangers and the prospect of pets, after all.

(Viktor can’t fault him for taking advantage of his cuteness; if he could get away with it, he’d do the exact same thing.)

When Makkachin bounds up to the stranger, it only takes him a moment to sniff him before he starts licking the man all over. Viktor groans, but the stranger laughs good-naturedly as he rubs at Makkachin’s back. “Your dog is _adorable_ ,” he simpers with a giggle. “What’s his name?”

Viktor smiles in spite of himself. “Makkachin,” he says, as Makkachin practically slobbers all over the stranger’s chin. “He’s a standard.”

The man hums. “That’s cute! I have a toy.” He scratches Makkachin behind the ear, his expression surprisingly thoughtful despite the drunken flush in his cheeks. “He’s back… back.” He gestures vaguely in a direction Viktor’s not quite sure of. “Home,” he finishes. His English has a soft American twang to it. Viktor is enchanted.

(He then stops that train of thought, because surely it must be weird to think that some random drunken stranger one stumbles upon in a park in Saint Petersburg while walking one’s dog is cute with a cute voice.)

(The man is still very cute, though.)

“I’m Viktor,” Viktor offers. “And you seem like you need help getting home.”

“No,” says the man vehemently. “Don’t wanna. I live here now.”

“Here? At Vladimirskaya Church?” Viktor’s eyebrows arch. “I doubt it.”

“Don’t wanna go home,” repeats the man, punctuating it with a giggle and a determined rub along Makkachin’s back. “Not tonight.”

“Well, I can’t just leave you out here,” says Viktor. “The police will come fetch you. You wouldn’t want to spend the night at the police station, I assure you. I’ll call you a cab, send you to a nice hotel. Do you have money?”

“Don’t carry cash,” replies the man, pouting a little.

Viktor sighs. “Then I’ll pay for the cab and hotel,” he suggests.

The man’s eyes widen. “No,” he says. “They’ll… they’ll find me. No one knows I’m here, except you. Let me come with you, please?”

Viktor’s first instinct is to refuse. He’d just met this guy, after all. No one in their right mind would let a stranger into their house. Yet there’s something in this man’s expression that makes Viktor’s resolve crumble like a deck of cards — that, and the fact that he seems completely unprepared for handling a night outside in Saint Petersburg, despite seemingly being on the run from something.

It really doesn’t hurt that the man is irrefutably adorable. He’s clad in sweatpants with a loose tan jacket over a black t-shirt, a light blue scarf lightly draped around his neck. His shock of messy black hair is sticking up at all angles, and he has blue-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. And he is _adorable_.

“Well, my mama always told me not to let strangers into my house,” Viktor says, “so you should tell me your name, so that we’re not strangers anymore.”

“I’m Yuuri,” says the man, drunkenly shaking Viktor’s hand.

Viktor makes sure he makes it all the way to his apartment.

* * *

Yuuri has the best luck, it seems. Somehow he’d managed to lose his tail in the midst of a crowd leaving the Avora Theatre, and latched onto a group of giggling and drunk university students making a bar hopping trip across the Fontanka. He’d lost them when they clambered onto a tram, though, and stumbled by himself down some street he didn’t recognise until he found the park in front of this nice church where he’d met the cutest boy he’d ever seen in his life.

The human attached to him isn’t bad looking, either, but drunk Yuuri is more interested in the dog anyway. And now he gets to follow the two of them home. Part of him feels a bit bad for imposing, for being troublesome to his staff who are just trying to make sure he’s safe while in this completely foreign city during some of its busiest nights of the year. But most of him is too giddy from the vodka he’d consumed to really care.

Besides, it’s not like he can contact his bodyguards. He left his phone in the hotel room, and he’s pretty sure Minako didn’t put a tracker on him. Going back to a stranger’s apartment while drunk is probably the dumbest, most reckless thing he’s ever done, but surely someone with a dog as cute as Macaroons (was it Macaroons? Maccabees? He can’t remember right now for the life of him) couldn’t be a serial killer in disguise.

“No, I’m not a serial killer in disguise,” the man says. Yuuri feels his face heating up, as apparently he’d said his thoughts aloud.

“Of course not!” he exclaims. “Definitely not. You’re very trustworthy. Very kind.” He reaches out and pats the man’s chest. “Very nice and strong.”

The man makes a noise akin to a balloon deflating. “Thanks?” he offers. The Cutest Dog in the World barks happily. Yuuri reaches down to pat him on the head.

“I wanna walk him,” he declares.

“You’re a little drunk, Yuuri,” says the man. “You could get hurt.”

“But he’s a good boy,” Yuuri points out.

“Maybe when you’re sober,” replies the man, smiling. He extends a hand. “Why don’t you walk me in the meantime?”

Yuuri takes his hand. There are calluses on the man’s fingertips that rub against his skin, but his hand is warm and steady and slots a little too perfectly against Yuuri’s own. He chalks the flush in his cheeks to the vodka, though, and lets himself get pulled along through the muted twilit streets all the way to an old-looking apartment building on a quiet residential street.

The man leads him into a darkened hallway whose lights blearily flicker into life as they walk down to the elevator and stairs at the end. He summons the elevator; it arrives with a cheery little _ding!_ that seem oddly echoing in the dim and quiet building.

“Oh, the couple’s gone to bed,” the man remarks as he yanks the door to the elevator open, gesturing for Yuuri to go inside. Yuuri does, leaning against the brushed steel wall. Cutest Dog whines a little, but joins them with a little coaxing from the man. The doors then close, and the lift begins to ascend.

“It’s so tiny,” Yuuri remarks, a small grin tugging at his lips as he tilts his gaze up at the man, who is also a very cute man, but not as cute as Cutest Dog. “Barely any room to breathe.”

“Yes,” agrees the man very intelligently, his cheeks flushed a little. Maybe he’d been drinking, too, or it had been cold outside for him. It wasn’t _too_ bad out as far as Yuuri’s concerned. Just a bit nippy for a summer night.

“Do you bring your dates up like this?” asks Yuuri. The man blinks at him.

“Dates?” he asks.

“Yeah, other strangers you meet and bring back to your home. Those are dates, right? I mean, I don’t really do a lot of it myself, so I wouldn’t know.” And it’s true; he’d never really had much by way of romance and dating. Most people who claimed to be interested in him only wanted him because he was a prince, after all. Gossip articles were notorious for speculating on who Yuuri might be dating, often even citing his best friend from Harvard, media empire heir Phichit Chulanont, as his boyfriend. To make matters worse, Phichit was always extremely reluctant to deny any romantic involvement between them, claiming that being a potential boyfriend of the future Emperor of Japan earned him more Instagram followers.

(Yuuri wonders what Phichit would say to him running out on his duties and his responsibilities and following some Russian man and his adorable dog home. Phichit would probably be very concerned. But then maybe if Phichit met the dog he would be convinced otherwise.)

“Well, I guess you’re not wrong, Yuuri,” says the man after a moment. “But there’s usually a distinction. I don’t like my dates more drunk than me, for one.”

“So this isn’t a date,” Yuuri states. He’s not disappointed at all, no matter what that strange sad curling in his stomach tries to say otherwise.

“No,” says the man. “Maybe in the morning.”

Yuuri perks at that. “That’s a great idea!” He launches himself forward before he can stop himself, leaning his head against the man’s shoulder. “I’ll get to walk Cutest Dog, and you can be my date!”

The man laughs. “His name’s Makkachin,” he says gently, amusement dancing in his sharp blue eyes. They’re like snowflakes, Yuuri thinks, or the sea just after a storm. Cold and dangerous and beautiful. The rest of him is beautiful, too, though far from cold and dangerous — in fact, he seems to be red all over now, and briefly he throws his fringe of silvery hair in his face to hide his expression from Yuuri’s gaze.

He leans forward, one arm grasping the man’s shoulder, the other pushing aside his fringe to look him in the eyes. The man’s breath hitches; Yuuri can swear he feels the man’s heartbeat pounding against his own.

The lift reaches the fifth floor. The man takes the opportunity to slide out of Yuuri’s grasp and open the door, letting Cutest Dog — Makkachin — out to the door of their flat. He unlocks it, holding the door open for Yuuri as well.

Yuuri giggles as he stumbles into the apartment, dropping his jacket and scarf casually as he looks around at the space. Through the rosy twilight filtering in from the windows he can make out a couch and several bookshelves full of books, as well as mounted photographs and records. Some of the photographs have the man in them, and all of them are black-and-white.

Once in the flat, Makkachin bounds over to a bowl set down beside a set of French doors, licking sloppily at the water. Yuuri’s throat feels suddenly quite dry, so he asks for a glass of water as well, which the man readily offers. He then pivots, as if trying to determine where to put Yuuri for the night.

“I can take the couch,” Yuuri says. “I’ve never slept on a couch before. It must be fun.”

“Ah, no, not all couches are fun to sleep on,” says the man hastily. “My couch is unfortunately among them. You should take the bed.” He gestures to a hallway leading off the space with a small dining table and several more cabinets full of books and knick-knacks. Yuuri follows, passing by the door leading into an office of some kind — which the man quickly closes — and the one leading into a bathroom before tripping over a squeaky toy just outside the last door and stumbling bodily into the man’s arms once more.

“We really should stop meeting like this,” he jokes, and the man’s laughter wheezes out of him almost half-hysterically as he helps Yuuri get into the room, sitting him down on the bed before drawing together a set of blackout curtains and turning on the lights.

It’s a fairly simple room, all clean lines and minimalistic designs save for an extremely fuzzy rug at the foot of the bed. The bed is pretty big, its comforter bunched up on one side and pooling halfway on the floor. Yuuri flops back onto it, kicking off his shoes, and turns to watch the man rummage through the dresser.

He emerges with a faded shirt that says something ‘sans frontières’, which Yuuri can’t really read in both his inebriated state and the dim lighting of the room. He gestures towards where the master bathroom is, before rummaging somewhere else for a spare toothbrush. Yuuri takes the opportunity to get rid of his scarf and sweatpants, and he’s just pulling off his shirt when he hears the man’s voice telling him about a spare toothbrush cut off mid-sentence.

Yuuri hastily throws on the shirt and looks up to see the man silhouetted in the glow from the master bathroom, the toothbrush poking comically out of his fist. “Um,” the man says after a moment, and steps back into the glow to switch the toothbrushes at the sink. “I’ll just be outside if you need anything. Good night.”

And he quickly sweeps from the room, leaving Yuuri alone in it with nothing but his thoughts for company.

It’s a strange, exhilarating feeling to be completely alone in a room, without even the knowledge of bodyguards surveilling him from afar. Yuuri quickly gets ready for bed, not caring that the toothpaste tastes strange to him, and jumps into a big spacious bed with coverlets thinner than the ones back home. The sheets might not be the finest Egyptian cotton, but they smell dimly of the man’s shampoo and soap, and that feels warm and safe for some reason that Yuuri can’t quite place at the moment.

After a long while of listening to nothing but the distant rumbles of traffic and revellers, Yuuri begins to drift to sleep. But just before his eyes properly close, he hears the sound of a glass being set down on the nightstand next to him, and feels a set of gentle hands tuck the comforter tight around him.

After that, he knows nothing more.

* * *

In the morning, Viktor wakes up to the blinding light of the morning sun in his face. He stretches, and yelps in pain when his head collides with the arm of his sofa.

Frowning a little, he tosses off his sleep mask and swings himself up into a sitting position on his sofa, wondering how he’d ended up here when he clearly knew better from other drunken nights that his couch is the worst place to sleep on. And then he notices an unfamiliar coat discarded in the hallway, and suddenly everything comes rushing back.

_Yuuri._

Yuuri had discarded that coat. He’d also stumbled, like a newborn giraffe trying to do ballet, into Viktor’s arms just short of the bedroom, and Viktor had to carry him to the bed and tuck him in with an aspirin and a glass of water.

That’s why he’s on the couch.

“ _Shit_.” Viktor scrubs at his face before clambering to his feet and padding down the hallway to his room. The door is closed; so he slides it open a peep. Makkachin immediately comes out, panting for his breakfast. Viktor sighs, and pokes his head in.

Yuuri is asleep still, lashes long against his pale cheeks. Viktor feels his heart seize a little in his chest at the sight, which is all he needs to close the door and beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen to fill Makkachin’s bowls and start breakfast.

He’s halfway through making fried eggs and toast when the broadcast playing on the TV switches to a news story about the sudden unexpected illness that had struck the Crown Prince of Japan. The image of the Crown Prince that the newscasters are using has him dressed in a suit with his hair slicked back, but Viktor would recognise those eyes anywhere.

Those are the same eyes belonging to the man currently sleeping in his bedroom.

(He had no idea the Crown Prince usually wore glasses.)

Viktor’s throat is dry; his hands are shaking. He quickly scrambles to plate the food, rushing everything to the counter at the sound of footsteps down the hall. Moments later, Crown Prince Yuuri of Japan comes shuffling into the room with a little yawn. Viktor hastily mutes the TV.

Yuuri is clad in the Reporters Without Borders shirt that Viktor had lent him last night; it hangs loosely about his shoulders, barely obscuring the hem of his black briefs. Viktor feels his mouth go dry at the sight and he quickly forces his gaze back up to Yuuri’s bleary expression. The prince yawns, oblivious to the fact that his face is still splashed across Viktor’s TV screen, and steps up to the counter.

“I’m sorry, sir, but… where am I?” he asks.

Viktor blinks. He then quickly sets down the frying pan and spatula still in his hands before he drops them and breaks something (or himself). “How much do you remember from last night, Yuuri?” he asks quietly.

Yuuri startles a little, as if he’d expected Viktor to call him something else. But then his cheeks flush pink. “I didn’t… do anything untoward, did I?” he asks.

Untoward. Viktor’s insides are squirming with glee at how adorable this man is. “No, you were just insistent on not going home,” he says. “Makkachin and I took you back here, to my place. I took the couch.”

“Makkachin,” says Yuuri, and then the poodle insinuates himself by Yuuri’s knee as a reminder. The prince chuckles at that, reaching down to pet the poodle. “A standard. How cute! I have a toy poodle back… at home.”

Viktor nods. “You told me that last night,” he says.

“Oh.” Yuuri bites at his lip. “Well. Um. Sorry. For that, and for imposing. I won’t be troubling you for much longer. I need to return —”

“Home?” asks Viktor. “You seemed pretty adamant about not returning last night. But then I guess you were drunk, so…”

“Yeah. I…” Yuuri trails off. “What time is it? And what was your name again?”

“Viktor,” says Viktor. “Viktor Nikiforov. And it’s actually almost ten-thirty in the morning.”

Yuuri freezes. “ _What_.”

“Yeah.” Viktor nods.

Yuuri stumbles onto one of the chairs at the counter, putting his head in his hands. “Can I… borrow your phone? I need to make a call.”

Viktor nods, handing over his phone and opening it to the keypad. Yuuri yawns again as he punches in a number, but then he suddenly freezes at the sight of something and slowly turns around to see his face on the news broadcast still. According to the ticker, the Crown Prince of Japan’s itinerary has been put on hold to better facilitate his speedy recovery.

Yuuri’s expression seems almost comically pale at that. “What happened to _that_ guy?” he asks, gesturing to his own photo as if pretending he just bore an uncanny resemblance to the ‘sick’ prince. “I can’t read Russian, so I don’t know…”

Viktor hides a smile. “He’s sick,” he replies. “They’ve cancelled all of his public events today.”

Yuuri nods then, chewing at his lower lip. “I see,” he says quietly. He then sets down the phone and picks up his fork, raising an eyebrow at the plate of toast and eggs.

“Help yourself,” says Viktor. “Do you want tea, too?”

Yuuri nods. Viktor puts the kettle on, before taking his phone and firing off a message to his editor-in-chief, Yakov Feltsman, about interviewing the Crown Prince. Across the counter from him, said Crown Prince tucks into his eggs with gusto, clearly enjoying having a chance to not mind his manners for once. It tugs at something in Viktor’s chest in a way he can’t quite explain, as he fiddles helplessly with his phone and then sets it down instead.

“So, what brings you here to Saint Petersburg, Yuuri?” he asks.

Yuuri fidgets with his fork. “Work,” he says vaguely.

“What sort of work?” asks Viktor.

“Family business,” mumbles Yuuri.

Viktor smiles. “No time for sightseeing?” he wonders.

Yuuri ponders it for a moment. “Well,” he says, “I think my schedule might have just freed up.”

Viktor’s smile broadens, just as the kettle whistles from behind him. He turns it off, rummaging through the cupboard for some mugs that aren’t covered in slogans full of existential dread and sarcasm. The best he can manage is a completely blank IKEA mug that has a little dust on the inside, which he quickly rinses out.

“How do you usually take your tea?” he asks.

“I usually have sencha,” replies Yuuri.

Viktor laughs weakly. “Unfortunately I have none of that. How about Lipton?”

Yuuri’s expression looks slightly pained, but he nods. “A dash of milk and one sugar,” he says. Viktor quickly acquiesces, before stirring a spoonful of jam into his own mug. Yuuri’s eyebrows raise, but he says nothing to that as he sips his own.

Viktor’s phone pings with a message from Yakov at that moment. _You’re out of your mind, Vitya. The Imperial Household Agency never lets foreign journalists interview the royals. Besides, he’s sick. It’s all over the news._

Viktor rolls his eyes, and responds: _Yes, but how much would you be hypothetically willing to pay for an exclusive interview?_

Yakov’s answer is almost instantaneous. _10,000 USD for his thoughts on politics, 50,000 USD for his thoughts on love and marriage._

Viktor’s glad he hadn’t been drinking at the time of that message, because he definitely would’ve spat it out. Instead he descends into a coughing fit, earning him a strange look from Yuuri across the counter from him.

“Work,” he hastily answers.

“What sort of work?” asks Yuuri, a little smile twitching at his lips.

Viktor chuckles. “Boring work,” he replies, and types his response: _What if I told you I could get all of that for you? An exclusive interview with the man, not the crown. With photographs._

 _That’d be worth more than the sum of your career_ , is Yakov’s reply. Viktor almost feels offended at that, but Yakov then appends it with, _It’d be the cover article of a lifetime here at SVQ if you pulled it off_.

That’s right, it would. So many other publications would kill for an exclusive interview with the Crown Prince of Japan on the topics of life and love. It’d be the perfect comeback for him, from the murky recesses of speculating about which Piter socialite is doing coke off some stripper’s abs in the back of a club this time to pursuing the truth once more. Writing articles that could change lives, shake nations — writing stories that mattered. He could regain that spark that made him want to become a journalist in the first place, if he could capture with his words the way Yuuri’s eyes sparkle over the edge of his mug.

(A part of him insists that that defies all description. He swallows down that part of him as quickly as he can.)

“Well, I just freed up my day, too,” he says instead, setting down his phone on the counter with a grin. “So if you would like some company when you go sightseeing, we could definitely do that.”

Yuuri’s smile grows radiant, and Viktor’s heart skips a beat. “I’d like that,” agrees the prince almost eagerly. He sounds so earnest, so trusting, so determined to make the most of his situation. Viktor can feel his gut twisting at the question burning into his phone, and it takes all he can to make his smile reach his eyes.

“Then let’s finish up breakfast and get ready,” he says cheerily, and when Yuuri nods and tucks back into his eggs, he fires off the answer:

_I’ll hold you to that. It’ll be on your desk first thing in the morning._

* * *

After breakfast, Yuuri is instructed to go into Viktor’s closet and pick out an outfit that fits him.

This is much easier said than done, considering that Viktor’s shoulders are broader and his hips are narrower. It takes a lot of digging and a lot of trying on shirts and jeans before Yuuri finds something suitable, and even then Viktor purses his lips, rakes his eyes over Yuuri’s body, and suggests they go shopping as well.

“There’s no need to go to this trouble on my behalf,” Yuuri insists, but Viktor only laughs at that.

“It’s no problem, honestly. We’ve got more daylight than usual to explore the city, after all.”

Yuuri has to make an effort to stop his heart from skipping a beat at the twinkle in Viktor’s eyes at that. After all, the man probably knows who he is, and is just being nice for the sake of being nice to royalty. He’s probably ridiculously obvious about being a prince, anyway, given how he’d almost instinctively recoiled at the tea. He’d have to control that, like how he’s had to control his reactions to almost everything else in life.

It makes him a jittering mess of nerves covered only by a thin veneer of calm, and most days he’s convinced everyone can see through it.

Viktor smiles as hs grabs a leash and opens the door to the flat. Makkachin pads along as well, and the three of them take the staircase down. The stairwell is filled with the sound of loud music and vacuum cleaners; some kid is bickering with their parent on the fourth floor and a young woman is sleeping just outside the door of a flat on the third floor.

Yuuri’s concern must have shown on his face, because Viktor chuckles and shrugs at the sight and explains, “don’t worry, she’ll wake in a bit,” and leads him on.

“Are people usually like that when they’re drunk?” wonders Yuuri as they reach the ground floor. Viktor snorts.

“I don’t know, Yuuri, you tell me,” he remarks cryptically. Yuuri tries to search his head for what happened last night, but all he draws up is a blank. He’s not really sure how he even got out of the hotel, let alone all the way to wherever Viktor is staying. Chances are, Minako and the rest of his household are busy searching for him now.

Saint Petersburg is waking up now all around them. The city goes to bed late these days, Yuuri knows, since the darkness is only a dim twilight before the sun comes back up again. Still, the streets are busy with tourists and shopkeepers, with people dining on terraces and rushing to catch trams. It’s very different from Tokyo, and yet there’s a similar sort of vibrant energy, as if the traffic patterns of the city were its pulse.

A couple blocks from Viktor’s apartment building there are a couple of small clothes boutiques. Viktor clips Makkachin to his leash and ties him up outside, before gesturing for Yuuri to enter the store. It is dim and a little musty, but with a little poking around the two of them come up with a light blue shirt and a pair of dark-wash skinny jeans. Yuuri almost feels guilty about letting Viktor pay for the clothes, but resolves to figure out some way to compensate him for his troubles once he has access to his funds again.

The church bells are tolling for noon by the time they make it back to Viktor’s apartment. As Viktor goes to fill Makkachin’s food dish, Yuuri heads into the bedroom to slip into his new clothes. His fingers fumble the buttons a little and he does several different knots with his scarf before he finds a style he likes, but eventually he’s rolling up his sleeves and slipping on his shoes again, just as someone knocks at the door.

Yuuri opens the door to see Viktor on the other side. There’s a pause as Viktor takes him in almost appraisingly, two spots of colour appearing on his cheeks.

“Does it look weird?” Yuuri asks.

Viktor coughs. “It looks fine,” he says. “I need to get changed, myself.”

Yuuri feels his face heating up. “R-Right,” he stammers, and slides out past Viktor into the hallway. Viktor looks down at the ground; Yuuri follows his gaze but sees nothing but his feet.

“You have an interesting taste in clothes,” Viktor remarks after a moment. “Tracksuit bottoms with silk socks and Italian leather shoes.”

Yuuri’s ears are on fire. “I’m starting a new trend,” he flusters.

Viktor laughs. “I’m sure the CEOs of the world would appreciate that,” he says, and heads into his room. Yuuri swallows as the door closes, and heads back to the living room.

He’s too obvious. Far too obvious. He needs something else as well. As he scratches at Makkachin’s head on the couch in the living room, looking around him at the framed photographs and vinyl records, he can’t help but feel as though either Viktor must be the least observant man in the world, or the best liar. And he’s not sure which one is worse.

So when the man reenters the living room, adjusting the sleeves of his striped long-sleeve shirt and sweeping his shower-damp silver fringe back from his eyes, Yuuri clears his throat and says, “I have something to confess.”


	2. in the twilight of these white nights

Christophe Giacometti isn’t paid enough for this.

He’d been in the middle of a portrait session with a young couple when he’d gotten the first call. He lets it ring through, but it comes back with a vengeance not even five minutes after. And then again after he ignores that one.

So he lets Sara and Mila take five, before grabbing his phone and answering. “Viktor, what’s so important that you’d call me three times in a row? You know I hate being called during shoots.”

“ _It’s an emergency_ ,” says Viktor, his voice hushed on the other end of the line. “ _Meet me at my place in thirty minutes. And bring your most discreet camera_.”

“ _What_?” demands Christophe, rubbing at his temples. “Vik, what do you even want me to photograph at your place?”

“ _I can’t say it. They might be listening_.”

“Who’s they?” asks Christophe, his eyes narrowing. “Seriously, don’t play games with me. I’m meeting Masumi at Café Zhenya in thirty minutes, and it’d be bad manners to keep him waiting.”

“ _Oh, already on a second date_?” Viktor’s voice sounds amused. “ _Come on, this could be the chance to get your work noticed by_ You Only Live Once _and_ Runway _and all the other big magazines!_ ”

“And this fantastic opportunity is currently at your apartment?” Christophe snorts. “I love you, Vik, but I’m not walking out on Masumi for whatever softcore porno you’ve got set up.”

“ _I’d have thought you’d be_ interested _in a softcore porno,_ ” Viktor remarks drily, “ _but that’s not why I’m calling_.” He sighs. “ _It doesn’t matter, anyway — if you’re not interested, I’ll just find someone else_.”

Christophe would be lying if he said he _wasn’t_ interested at this point. “What are the odds you could bring whatever the hell it is over to Café Zhenya in thirty minutes?” he asks.

There’s a moment of silence. Then Viktor hums. “ _I’ll think about it_ ,” he says, and then hangs up.

Christophe sighs, and looks over at where Sara and Mila are looking at him expectantly. “Alright, ladies, one more set before I have to head out to my hot date,” he says.

Mila snorts, crossing over to the prop couch on the set. “Have fun with that,” she remarks. “Sorry the press conference with the Crown Prince got cancelled, so you ended up stuck with us.”

“You know, it’s odd that Viktor didn’t show up to the office,” Christophe says as he lines up another shot on the tripod. “He was supposed to cover the press conference with me. Sara, go and put your head in Mila’s lap.”

“Maybe he saw the news and decided to not show up to work,” Sara says as she complies. Mila giggles, running her hands through Sara’s hair.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” admits Christophe, taking a couple more shots. “Okay, I’m going to set up a different lighting scheme. Don’t move.”

Mila giggles, continuing to run her hand through Sara’s hair as if to spite Christophe’s instructions. Christophe clicks his tongue at her, but says nothing else as he puts on new coloured gels over the fresnels currently lighting up the studio. “What was that about an opportunity, though, Chris?”

Christophe snorts. “Right, because I’ll totally go to Viktor’s apartment to do some sort of shady totally-not-porn opportunity,” he deadpans. “I don’t know what sort of photographer you take me for, Mila.”

Mila snickers. “Maybe he’s being hush-hush because of the bet he struck with Yakov this morning,” she muses.

“What bet?” asks Sara and Christophe in unison, Christophe looking up from his adjusting the c-stand with his eyebrows raised in interest.

“Yura told me that Vitya struck a bet with Yakov about whether or not he could get an exclusive interview with the Crown Prince of Japan,” Mila replies. “Something about how Yakov will move him back up to doing cover articles if he gets this story.”

“I mean, you don’t need to bet with the editor-in-chief to put an interview with the Crown Prince as the cover feature,” Sara points out. “That’s kind of a given already.”

“Still,” says Mila, as Christophe returns to take more photos. “The Crown Prince of Japan is a lot more of a compelling reason to go to Vitya’s flat than porn, right?”

Christophe chuckles. “If Viktor Nikiforov has the Crown Prince of Japan with him, then I’ll eat my camera.”

Half an hour later, as he watches Crown Prince Yuuri of Japan blow bubbles into his champagne across the table from him at the Café Zhenya, Christophe makes a mental note to look up a YouTube tutorial on how to eat a camera.

“Chris, this is my friend from Tokyo,” says an infuriatingly smug Viktor, as Yuuri nods his head politely at Christophe. His hair looks extremely rumpled, and he’s got on a pair of blue-framed glasses, but there’s no mistaking the press smile, or the soft cadence of his voice when he introduces himself as ‘Yuuri Katsuki’.

Yuuri _Katsuki_ , his ass. Christophe shakes his hand firmly, smiling all the while. “Christophe Giacometti, nice to meet you. You know, you kind of remind me of someone.”

“Really,” remarks Yuuri, raising an eyebrow. “Who would that be?”

Christophe opens his mouth to answer, but he’s cut off by a sudden sharp pain in his foot. Across the table, Viktor flashes him a sharp glare. Christophe grimaces in response.

“Someone I met in university, probably,” he says, eyeing Viktor warily as he flags down a passing waiter and orders a Viennese coffee. In response, Viktor sips at his kvass with all the smug malevolence of an old Russian grandma. Christophe is tempted to flip him the bird.

Yuuri’s eyes light up. “I’m currently on holiday from university,” he declares cheerily.

“Really?” asks Christophe. “A holiday? Or is it some sort of dip —” He’s cut off again by a splash of cold liquid in his face.

“Look at this mess,” Viktor deadpans, with no sign of remorse in his voice. “You’ve made me spill my kvass.”

“ _I_ made you spill?” demands Christophe, already scrambling for the napkins.

“I would’ve preferred it if you didn’t _spill_ at all,” retorts Viktor, his tone bitingly pointed. Christophe takes a deep breath, rubbing at his temples.

“I’m going to go wash this off,” he says, smiling at Yuuri. “Pardon me.” And he gets up and leaves, nodding at Viktor pointedly on his way back. As he leaves the terrace to go back into the café, he can hear Viktor taking his leave as well.

In the washroom, Christophe wets a paper towel and begins dabbing at his pants with a grimace as Viktor washes his hands next to him. “So,” he says.

“Mm?” wonders Viktor, having the gall to look innocently at him.

Christophe looks around, checks each of the stalls to make sure there’s no one else in there with them. “The Crown Prince of Japan,” he states after he closes the last door, and then jerks his head towards the door leading out of the washroom.

“Yeah,” says Viktor. “He insists his name’s Yuuri Katsuki, and he’s ducked out from some sort of school trip to Saint Petersburg.”

“What school?” wonders Christophe. “Could’ve sworn I heard that the Crown Prince graduated Harvard last spring.”

A small smile tugs at Viktor’s lips. “Wayne State University,” he says.

Christophe snorts. “Interesting choice of school.”

“He says he’s a skater with the Detroit Skate Club, and that his dad owns a hotel in Tokyo.”

“More like all of Tokyo, and the rest of the country.” Christophe chuckles. “And you didn’t tell him who you were?”

“Hell no,” Viktor shakes his head vehemently. “He’s been raised in the public eye all his life. A bunch of journalists are the last people he wants to keep company with on his day off.”

“But this is going to be a story for SVQ,” Christophe points out.

“Yeah,” says Viktor. “But it’ll be no good if he goes all Crown Prince on us, when what we’re looking for is _Yuuri_.”

“So what the hell did you say _you_ were, then?” demands Christophe.

Viktor’s expression inexplicably turns pink. “I said I was a dancer,” he says.

Christophe bursts into laughter. “Could’ve picked something worse,” he says after a moment, miming wiping tears from his eyes. Viktor glowers at him. “What? At least you have family members in the Mariinsky. Say, are you going to go take him to see them?”

Viktor shrugs, looking at himself in the mirror again. He slicks back his hair a little, but then grimaces and forces his fringe forward again. “We’ve got to entertain him, Chris,” he says. “That means going along with all of his wishes and desires.”

“Well, I bet he’s already seen something at the Mariinsky,” replies Christophe, shrugging. “You should show him some other dances, if you know what I mean.”

Viktor blanches. “Could you imagine the Crown Prince of Japan at a strip club?” he demands.

Christophe cackles. “No, but now I can’t get the mental image out of my head,” he replies. “Come on, let’s not keep His Highness waiting.”

But when they head back out, they notice that both the champagne glass and the seat in front of it are empty, and a napkin has been placed under the glass with a note:

_Gone shopping nearby, back in ten minutes —Y_

Christophe laughs at the winded expression on Viktor’s face, and readies his phone for some stealth photography.

* * *

Yuuri had been drawn away from the café by a couple brightly flashing signs across the street. While he can’t read Cyrillic, he can at least hazard, based on the racks of goods outside, that these stores are souvenir shops.

He doesn’t have more than just a couple thousand rubles on him, but hopefully that’ll be enough to get him one of the hats displayed in the window of one of the shops. So he scrawls out a note for Viktor and his friend, places it under his glass, and slips away from the terrace café towards the shop.

The shop is blindingly lit with loud pop music playing over the speakers. Beneath the lights, bright colours appear almost neon. Yuuri has to blink a bit to adjust, before heading for the racks to try on some of the hats.

“We are having good deal for hats today,” the shopkeeper tells him as he tries on one of the straw hats. “All the ones on the red racks, seventy-percent off!”

“Oh,” says Yuuri, a little awkwardly. “Thanks.”

“Where are you from? China?”

“Japan,” says Yuuri, now switching to a trilby before wrinkling his nose and taking it off.

“Oh Japan! Very nice, very nice! You are buying souvenirs for friends?”

Yuuri nods; he might as well pick something up for Phichit. To his dismay, however, that makes the shopkeeper start to rattle off all the interesting knick-knacks he has for sale in this store. But cutting him off mid-spiel feels rude, so Yuuri merely turns around and pretends to be examining the hats once more, nodding and humming along to the man’s exclamations about his supposedly hand-made nesting dolls.

“Yuuri,” he hears to his side, and Yuuri has never been happier to see Viktor standing there, an eyebrow raised as as he peers into the shop. “Have you decided on what you’re going to get?”

“Um,” says Yuuri, looking sidelong at the shopkeeper, who seems to have quieted when Viktor poked his head in. “I was looking for a hat.”

Viktor hums, coming into the shop and crossing over to the rack of hats, plucking a black beanie with cat ears off one of the racks and setting it on his head. The slide of his hands along the side of Yuuri’s head may be perfunctory, but it makes Yuuri’s breath hitch all the same.

“There,” says Viktor, patting his shoulders. “We’ll take this.”

“Are you sure?” asks Yuuri, but Viktor is already heading over to the counter to pay for it. Frowning, Yuuri looks at himself in the mirror, wrapping his scarf tighter around his face.

Not bad. He almost looks anonymous.

Viktor steps over, pocketing his wallet and extending his hand. “Shall we?” he asks.

“Where are we going?” asks Yuuri once they hit the pavement once again. Up ahead at the next intersection buses and cars rumble down Nevsky Avenue. Yuuri once again thinks about Minako and the rest of his staff, and the crisis he must surely be causing the Kunaicho back home.

But then he looks at Viktor, and Viktor still hasn’t let go of his hands, and his eyes are as blue as the sky above. “Anywhere you’d like,” Viktor says with a smile, bright and genuine, and Yuuri decides that maybe he can be ‘sick’ for a couple more hours.

* * *

Viktor has never met anyone quite like Yuuri Katsuki before in his life, and that’s even before the entire Crown Prince of Japan thing.

But then, that entire Crown Prince of Japan thing really goes a ways to explain why Yuuri seems to have trouble getting through the turnstile at the metro, why he looks apprehensive about a semi-full subway car, why he looks around him with almost childish glee when they get out at the Admiralteyskaya stop and nearly collides with several other people rushing past on the escalator.

Christophe, who had tagged along with them after rescheduling his date, waves his phone as they approach the grand palaces of the Hermitage Museum. “Did you bring your phone, Yuuri?” he asks.

“No,” laments Yuuri. “Could you take pictures of me?”

“I’d love to,” replies Christophe, flashing Viktor a wink before snapping a couple pictures of Yuuri against the ostentatious palace exterior.

“Reminds me of some of the palaces in Tokyo,” Yuuri remarks as he looks over the photos. “There’s one that’s supposed to look like Buckingham Palace. The government uses it to house state guests.”

“Really,” says Christophe. “Wonder if the Queen has ever stayed in it.”

Yuuri laughs. Viktor’s pretty sure no one outside the palace walls in Tokyo has ever heard such a lovely sound. Or seen the way Yuuri’s non-press smile crinkles the corners of his eyes as he takes Christophe’s arm and tugs him on towards the throng in front of the Hermitage.

They get online tickets to the main museum complex, breezing past the lines and shuffling through security with very little incident. Viktor holds his breath as he watches Yuuri walk through a metal detector, only exhaling when none of the guards seem to recognise him.

And then they’re inside, ascending the magnificent marble staircase. Yuuri seems to draw in on himself, consciously trying to look inconspicuous as he follows the press of tourists up the checkerboard marble steps. Christophe snaps a couple pictures of the prince as he rounds the corner, footsteps soft against the plush red carpet.

At the top of the staircase Yuuri suddenly stops to wait for them, the tourists flowing past on both sides of him as he waits. Christophe takes another photo, while Viktor rushes up to meet him. Yuuri takes his arm, his hand a soft but steady presence as they begin to wander through the rooms.

Viktor’s been through the Hermitage countless times. But being here with Yuuri somehow feels like rediscovering it all over again in the brand-new ways the early afternoon light dances across Yuuri’s face, shines in the sheen of his black hair and the sparkle of his brown eyes. He seems captivated by every piece of work they pass, from Rembrandt to Da Vinci to Van Dyck and so many other masters, often stopping to read the plaques with quiet reverence.

“Have you been here yet on your school trip?” Viktor asks, as Yuuri pauses to contemplate a Flemish painting of a winter scene with skaters gliding past on the ice, their movements swallowed by the vastness of the background. Yuuri nods his head, turning to look at Viktor with a small, slightly bitter smile tugging at his lips.

“I was here briefly on my first night,” he says. “I had no time to see anything, though.”

“What do you remember seeing?” asks Viktor.

Yuuri turns his head back to the skaters, saying nothing.

With Yuuri occupied by the paintings, Viktor begins to mull over the article. What would he talk about? Yuuri’s apparent appreciation for Flemish landscapes? The way he seems to simultaneously fit in and stick out amid the opulent surroundings? His favourite painter?

“Is there an artist you like best?” he asks. “We could check to see if they have anything here.”

Yuuri laughs. “The most contemporary paintings here are from the 18th century,” he laments.

“So you’re not a fan of the old masters?” asks Viktor.

Yuuri pulls a face. “I wouldn’t put it that harshly,” he admits. “I have preferences, not dislikes.”

“That’s diplomatic of you,” replies Viktor, causing Yuuri to arch an eyebrow. Viktor chuckles. “You must be quite a people pleaser at your school,” he elucidates with a shrug.

“Yeah.” Yuuri bites his lip. “I guess you could say that.”

“But we’re all human, so surely you must have some dislikes,” Viktor points out as they stride down a hallway lined with the portraits of the Romanov dynasty. Yuuri cranes his head upwards to look at some of them, almost colliding with a couple other tourists as he does so. Viktor hides a smile at the way he flusters and apologises, feeling his heart skip a beat as Yuuri takes his arm.

“I don’t see the point in voicing them,” replies Yuuri.

“It must be difficult to keep it all bottled in, then,” Viktor laments, as they come to a stop in front of the portrait of Tsar Nicholas II.

“Yeah.” Yuuri’s smile is tight as he looks up at the portrait of the last Tsar, a weak little cork barely bottling in a tempest. The man in the painting is young and handsome, eyes shining with a naive trust in the absolute rule of monarchy. A shadow of understanding flickers over Yuuri’s face as he folds his hands behind his back, and then smiles at Christophe who snaps a picture of him with the Tsar.

Viktor can almost see the caption of that one: _the once and future Emperor_. It tugs at his heart a little, especially when Yuuri extends a hand for him to take. The Crown Prince’s hand feels alarmingly small in his.

“Let’s move on,” Yuuri declares, and Viktor nods.

* * *

The first thing Yuuri had done when his train pulled in at Saint Petersburg yesterday morning was to be shepherded off to this very palace, where he had met with President Baranovskaya and numerous other Russian politicians despite having just seen them in Moscow days before.

Saint Petersburg is very different from Moscow, though — it’s timeless, a bubble of imperial history preserved in a rapidly developing world. It reminds him a bit of Kyoto, where hints of a more powerful history lurk in the crevasses of each carefully-preserved building. Saint Petersburg had once been a seat of power, too, but now it is a living museum, archiving and displaying the past on its sleeve. Just like the Imperial Family.

They’re walking through the armorial hall now, the gold and white opulence of the room a stark contrast to what he’s used to in Tokyo. Yuuri remembers this room, remembers the endless caviar and champagne from his first night and the dull ache in his feet and face from standing and smiling at every dignitary he had been presented with. Minako had stopped him from drinking more than three glasses of champagne that first night, but all the vodka he’d consumed after the ballet performance at the Mariinsky that he attended after the meet-and-greet must have more than made up for it. He suspects Minako will try to cut him off entirely — for his own good, she’ll say, because it’s only about appearing as a sober and just prince for the public —  once he gets back.

If he gets back.

That thought causes goosebumps to prickle at his nape. He sighs, rubbing at it and looking briefly over his shoulder. One of the museum security guards positioned at the entrance to the room seems to be staring at him. Yuuri represses a shudder, before grabbing Viktor by the hand and dragging him through a simpler white room full of small silver figurines and finally into a gallery full of portraits from 1812.

“Are you alright?” asks Viktor, as Yuuri skids to a stop in front of a portrait of a balding man laden in medals. Yuuri nods, a little too vehemently, tossing another wary look over his shoulder as he plasters himself more fully to Viktor’s side.

“Viktor, I think we should leave,” he says.

“Leave?” asks Viktor. “There’s still two floors left to explore. They’ve got Japanese art on the third floor, if you want —”

Yuuri peeks back, noticing another security guard muttering something into an earpiece.

“Come on,” he says, tugging Viktor towards the other door leading out of the room. Viktor goes along with him, though his steps are faltering. In turn, Yuuri tugs him deeper into a tour group heading for the stairs, and hopes that they will go unnoticed for a moment longer.

However, he looks up just as they’re halfway down the stairs, and for a brief, terrifying moment, his eyes lock with his Grand Master Minako Okukawa’s as she arrives at the upper landing.

Yuuri quickly ducks his head. “ _Run_ ,” he hisses, and Viktor obliges. His hand grounds Yuuri as they rush through the thronging tourists down the stairs, heading for the exit. Viktor begins to lead them once they hit the first floor, and Yuuri blindly follows, not daring to look back again until they’re running out into the crowds gathered in Palace Square.

“What’re you running from? Your professor?” asks Viktor as they stop just short of a group of teenagers taking selfies with the Alexander column.

Yuuri stifles a chuckle at how ridiculous that sounds, but he nods anyway. The story of him being a university student dodging a summer trip had sounded ridiculous when he first told Viktor about it earlier this morning, but now that he’s made his bed, he has no choice but to lie in it.

Viktor, on the other hand, doesn’t stifle his laughter. “What sort of university professor hires bodyguards to chase down wayward students, anyway?” he wonders. “When I was in school they didn’t care if you failed to show up to excursions.”

“You don’t go to my school,” replies Yuuri, rocking back and forth a little as he watches Viktor type at his phone. “Are you texting Chris?”

“Yeah, he’ll meet us in the Alexander Gardens across the street,” replies Viktor, before he opens the camera app on his phone. “Let’s take a selfie, blend in a little.”

Yuuri’s sure to smile brightly as Viktor snaps a picture of the two of them.

* * *

Christophe texts them once they reach the Alexander Gardens, saying that he’s trying to get out of the Hermitage and will be at the Admiralty Fountain in ten minutes. So Viktor pulls Yuuri over to the fountain, where Yuuri briefly gets distracted by a busker who seems to have trained a flock of pigeons to follow him around.

Viktor hands the man a couple rubles, and moments later Yuuri laughs in surprise and shock as the pigeons descend upon him, landing on his head and shoulders in pursuit of the birdseed the busker has sprinkled onto him. Viktor snaps a couple pictures of Yuuri’s delighted expression, coupled by the fountain playing in the back and the spires of the Admiralty building jutting up against the summer afternoon sky.

Once the birds have cleared away, Yuuri takes a seat by the fountain to dip his hands briefly in the water. The sounds of street musicians fill the air around them, coupled by the beeping of cars in traffic and the distant chimes of the old palace bells. As the music mounts into a catchy tune, Yuuri springs to his feet and extends his hands to Viktor, pulling him in circles around the fountain.

Viktor’s heart feels so full that it’s close to bursting. Curtained off to the public by the Imperial Household Agency at all times, Yuuri must very rarely let himself let loose like this. He remembers the carefully curated press appearances being broadcast on the news this morning, remembers the serious expressions on the photographed face of the man currently laughing in his arms. He almost wants to photograph it, preserve the moment a little longer. But instead, he commits the sparkles in Yuuri’s eyes to his own memory.

The readers of _Stammi Vicino Quarterly_ won’t need to hear about this, either.

With a final twirl, Viktor collapses breathlessly onto a nearby bench, tugging Yuuri down with him. The prince’s posture is immaculate as always, sitting as if his spine had been replaced by a steel rod. Viktor can’t help but laugh at that.

“Have you never slouched before in your life?” he asks.

“As a kid,” replies Yuuri. “I grew out of it.”

Trained out of it, more like. Viktor’s heart squeezes a little at that.

“A little slouching on your day off won’t hurt anyone,” he wheedles instead, and Yuuri rolls his eyes but presses his back against the bench, his legs crossed and his hands folded primly in his lap. Viktor looks at the couple cuddling on the bench next to them, and briefly considers pulling Yuuri in closer just like that.

But he keeps his hands to himself instead, and checks his messages for an update from Christophe.

“There you are,” a new voice cuts in, and Viktor briefly freezes, looking up to meet a familiar scowl set in a mane of short blond hair.

“Yura, what a nice surprise,” he remarks. “I thought you were supposed to be at the office.”

“Yakov sent me to track you down,” replies Yuri Plisetsky, rolling his eyes.

“And how’d you find me here?” wonders Viktor.

“Check for yourself, dumbass.” Yuri shoves a phone under Viktor’s nose. He takes it, looking down to see a picture of him and Yuuri ascending the grand staircase of the Hermitage posted to Instagram.

His blood runs cold when he sees the caption: _#CrownPrincesDayOff: Crown Prince Yuuri spotted at the Hermitage with mystery man_. He looks sidelong at Yuuri, who seems to be preoccupied with following the actions of a stray squirrel in the nearby oak tree, before looking up at Yuri again.

“So?” he asks.

“Is that?” asks Yuri, jerking his head towards Yuuri.

Viktor nods. Yuri scowls.

“What the hell did you do, old man? Did you kidnap him?” he demands, causing Yuuri to turn around and look at him in alarm. Viktor resists the urge to facepalm, but instead he kicks at Yuri’s shins, which Yuri promptly returns. Viktor hisses in pain.

“Stop talking nonsense, Yura,” he snaps, sending his best glare towards the teenage intern. Yuri rolls his eyes, turning instead to Yuuri.

“I wouldn’t stick with this guy,” he says. “He’d do anything for a scoop.”

“A scoop?” echoes Yuuri.

“Of ice cream,” says Viktor hastily, rising to his feet and walking Yuri back towards the fountain. “They serve really great ice cream in this city!”

“Stop lying,” spits Yuri as his heels hit the stone basin. Viktor grips the kid’s jaw, tilting his head upwards.

“Stop interfering,” he growls. “You’re going to blow my cover.”

“Oh, so you’re _undercover_ now,” hisses Yuri, each word dripping with sarcasm. “God I hope he sees right through you.”

“This is for SVQ, so I don’t know why you’re so opposed to it,” Viktor grumbles.

“Because I bet His Highness is going to hate it if he finds out that you’ve been lying to him all day,” replies Yuri, his grin broad and gleeful. “That, and you’re nothing but a pathetic gossip columnist because you can’t stop lying about your sources.”

Viktor feels anger boiling in his gut. “That was _one time_ ,” he snaps.

“A memorable time, considering what it did to your career,” replies Yuri snidely.

Viktor shakes his head. “And this is my second chance, Yura,” he says, releasing the kid’s head and taking a step back. “I suggest you not fuck it up for me.”

Yuri rolls his eyes. “Yeah, whatever,” he says, and slides out of Viktor’s grasp, tugging at the strings of his leopard-print hoodie. “You’ll probably fuck it up more than I ever could.” With that he waves briefly at Yuuri, and then stomps off into the trees.

Viktor returns to the bench, where Yuuri shoots him an inquisitive glance as soon as he takes a seat. “Yuri Plisetsky,” he explains as he starts to flick through his Instagram feed. “He’s the resident teen prodigy at our dance company. He talks a lot of shit, so don’t take anything he says to you seriously.”

“That seems a bit harsh,” Yuuri replies.

Viktor’s knuckles are white against his phone as he scrolls through the contents of the #CrownPrincesDayOff hashtag. “Unfortunate,” he bites off, and hides his screen from Yuuri’s inquisitive glance.

* * *

Christophe rejoins them minutes after Yuri Plisetsky leaves, and the three of them stroll through the shady gardens until they reach Nevsky Avenue again. They pause at a small café to pick up some afternoon drinks and snacks, and Yuuri cheerily bites into an Alyonka chocolate wafer as they head down the busy avenue towards the Moyka and Griboyedov canals. The candy melts sweetly on his tongue, though some of it gets on his fingers as well and he has to lick it off.

As they cross the Griboyedov canal, Yuuri recognises the multicoloured spirals of the Church of the Saviour on Spilled Blood rising out above the other buildings. “I don’t know if I want to get closer,” he admits. “The school trip might be there.”

“Is that what got you two to flee earlier?” asks Christophe. Yuuri nods.

“They work very fast in this situation, I’m afraid,” he says. “Usually it takes them months, if not years, to agree on other things.”

“Sounds like most bureaucratic things,” replies Christophe with a wink. “Let’s just get a little closer so I can get a good picture of you with the church.”

Yuuri obliges, and they head down the embankment along the canal, towards the lavish spires of the church. Halfway there, Viktor leads them onto a little foot bridge spanning across the canal; there Christophe takes a couple pictures of Yuuri, including one where he has him pretending to lick the spires like it’s some elaborate ice cream cone.

Next to them are a couple artists painting the church, their other completed canvasses on display. For a moment Yuuri contents himself with watching them, until Viktor pulls at his sleeve and reminds him that they shouldn’t linger for too long.

“Where do you want to go next?” he asks, and Yuuri turns southwards then, spying the glass tower and globe of the House of Books, and the triumphal arch of Kazan Cathedral just past it.

“Let’s go that way,” he suggests, and Viktor grins.

They had passed these buildings on their way to the bridge, but now Yuuri is excited at the prospect of going inside the House of Books. Only Christophe follows him inside, however; Viktor says he has to get something first.

“Do you know any Russian?” Christophe asks once they’re in the bookstore. Yuuri shakes his head, tracing his finger down the Cyrillic letters on the spine of something that looks like a bestseller novel.

“I wish I could. I unfortunately only know just a couple of words.”

Christophe laughs. “Just enough to make nice, I guess?”

Yuuri nods. “I’d like to learn more,” he admits. It’s a fairly recent desire, all things considered. He’d like to say it has nothing to do with the soft Russian accent that curls around the words of his silver-haired companion for the day, but then he’d be lying.

So instead he says nothing else, bowing his head as he continues to walk amongst the shelves and shelves of books. Christophe keeps pace easily, weaving with him around the other clusters of patrons browsing bookstands and flipping through books.

There’s a flash of something familiar in the centre of the room. Yuuri pauses in his restless meandering, pulling up his scarf to obscure his nose and mouth as he wanders out to the centre, past two ladies speaking in rapid fire Russian (or at least, he thinks it must be Russian) in front of a table piled high with books patterned with golden chrysanthemums.

His face peers up at him from the covers of several of these books. Most of them are childhood pictures, but there’s also one from a recent photoshoot where he had been caught crossing a bridge at the Imperial Palace in his kimono. The Cyrillic title is embossed in gold, but Yuuri suspects he knows exactly which book this is.

“ _The Silent Chrysanthemums_ ,” says a voice from behind him. Yuuri turns around to see Viktor there, his eyes downcast. “That’s what the title says, anyway. It’s a translation.”

“Is it any good?” asks Yuuri.

Viktor shrugs. “I haven’t read it,” he admits. “The author wrote an article in _You Only Live Once_ years ago, about how the Crown Prince had dealt with bullying in his childhood and now can’t face the real world anymore because of his anxiety. I guess this just kinda expands on it.”

“Wasn’t there a big uproar about this book in Japan?” asks Christophe. “The publishers who were supposed to do the Japanese translation ended up dropping the book because the Imperial Household Agency insisted that the contents were libelous.”

Yuuri hums. “What do _you_ think?” he wonders.

Viktor smiles. “I don’t know,” he replies. “I’m sure the Crown Prince is made of sterner stuff than what the author of this book gives him credit for.”

Yuuri is privately quite glad that his scarf is concealing most of his face, because he’s pretty sure his cheeks and ears are red. In a valiant effort to change the topic, he asks, “so did you do what you needed to do?”

Viktor’s face lights up. “Yeah, I did! Come on, I’ll show you,” he says, and pulls Yuuri by the hand out of the bookstore.

* * *

While Yuuri and Christophe had busied themselves inside the bookstore, Viktor had gone out on Nevsky Avenue and rented a Vespa from a Czech tourist named Emil.

Yuuri’s expression when he sees their new mode of transportation is nothing short of comical. “Do you even know how to drive this thing?” he asks as Viktor clambers onto it and looks back expectantly at him.

“It’s not that hard,” says Viktor as he starts the engine. “And Emil gave me plenty of tips.” He adjusts the helmet on his head with what he hopes is a charming grin, and holds out the other helmet to Yuuri.

“What about Chris?” asks Yuuri as he dons the helmet and clambers on behind Viktor, his hands resting on Viktor’s waist. Viktor’s stomach erupts into butterflies at the touch.  

Christophe snickers, snapping a picture of Yuuri on the scooter. “I’ll manage,” he replies, and the prince flashes him a victory sign in response, pulling down his scarf to show his smile. “Where are you guys going to go? We could just meet there.”

“Emil says he’ll pick up the Vespa at the Yusupov Gardens,” says Viktor, before releasing the brakes and twisting the throttle. The scooter begins to move, and Yuuri squeaks in alarm before burying his face in Viktor’s back.

Yuuri’s grip on him is deathly tight at first as they make their way past Kazan Cathedral, turning past the next intersection so that they can loop around and make their way through Kazan Square. As they make their way back to the canal embankment, however, Yuuri’s death grip loosens. Viktor can feel him relaxing somewhat against his back, and he smiles a little.

He parks the scooter at the side of the embankment just next to a slender footbridge guarded by two sets of golden-winged lions. Yuuri gapes up at it as he takes off his helmet, and Viktor silently curses whichever god gave him the ability to make rumpled helmet hair look adorable.

“Come on,” he says, once he recovers his voice. “Let’s go see the lions.”

* * *

Yuuri nods, leaping off the scooter and heading up onto the bridge. There are several tourists here as well, but none of them pay him any attention as he and Viktor head onto the bridge. Viktor stops in front of one of the lions, though, and holds up his phone.

“Selfie with the lion?” he asks. Yuuri nods, and Viktor snaps another selfie of the two of them. He then turns and regards the statues, tapping thoughtfully at his lips.

“You know, I heard these lions are magical,” he says.

“The wings don’t give it away?” jokes Yuuri, his heart thudding loudly at the heart-shaped grin on Viktor’s face.

“Not just that. I heard that if you stick your hand into one of their mouths and make a wish, they’ll either grant it, or bite your hand off.”

Yuuri shudders. “I think I’ll stick to writing my wishes on paper, then,” he says, remembering one time when he and Yuuko, the daughter of one of his chamberlains, had snuck out to a Tanabata matsuri. It had been the only time he’d gone without the pomp and circumstance surrounding Imperial visits, and he still remembers how the other children had called him by name, without the honorifics he was used to hearing from the mouths of practically every other adult in his life.

But then thinking about Yuuko reminds him of how much trouble he must be giving her in her role as his Chief Chamberlain right now. Guilt cuts through him, and it must show on his face because Viktor tilts his head and asks him if something’s wrong.

Yuuri shakes his head, but Viktor seems unconvinced. He then raises his hand to the lion.

“Dare me to stick my hand in?” he asks, blue eyes sparkling like the glittering water in the canal beneath their feet. Yuuri feels a grin sneak on, despite himself.

“How do you know it won’t bite your hand off?” he asks.

“I’ve got nothing to hide,” replies Viktor with his cheeky heart-shaped smile. “The lions only bite liars, you know.”

Yuuri can’t stick his hand in _now_. Even though he knows Viktor’s just joking around, there’s just some things he can’t risk exposing.

“Okay, then, let’s see how honest you are,” he replies with a wink, noticing the faint flush in Viktor’s cheeks when he does so. “Go on, I dare you.”

Viktor beams, and slides his hand into the lion’s mouth just past the cable. “See, Yuuri, it’s not that — _AAUGH_!” He suddenly lurches forward, trying to tug his hand away from the lion’s maw. Yuuri jumps back, startled, as Viktor frees his arm with some effort — but with his hand nowhere to be seen.

“Oh my god,” he gasps, but then Viktor laughs and pops his hand back out of the sleeve of his shirt, and Yuuri’s breath flees him in a mixture of amusement and anger. “Fuck! For a second there you scared me!”

He then realises the word he’d let slip, and claps a hand to his mouth, but Viktor is positively beaming at him at that point. Mortified, Yuuri stomps past him back to the Vespa, grabbing his helmet and strapping it on.

He feels Viktor slide into the seat behind him, his cheeks heating up as the other man presses up against his back. “You need a key to get somewhere on this,” Viktor rumbles in his ear as he inserts the key into the ignition.

Yuuri’s cheeks burn harder. “I knew that,” he flusters, and turns on the engine.

He nearly screams when the scooter first begins to move, but Viktor quickly reaches around to help him steer it out onto the embankment road. A car honks at them, but Viktor quickly helps him kick up the speed, and they start to cruise down along the road, past the other cars lined up in traffic.

Yuuri suspects Viktor has had some practice on scooters around this city — at least, more than he does. Still, it must be difficult trying to drive from behind, because he quickly gives up the steering to Yuuri, and once they clear the embankment all hell breaks loose.

It couldn’t have lasted more than fifteen minutes, but all things considered it is one of the best fifteen minutes of his life. The rest of Saint Petersburg’s citizens may beg to differ, though, because by the time the police catch up with them at the Yusupov Gardens, Yuuri has narrowly avoided six separate car accidents, accidentally smashed a terrace café’s porcelain, knocked over an artist’s easel, and disrupted a band playing by the fountain in Sennaya Square.

And though Yuuri knows he should be ashamed at causing such a spectacle in a country hosting him as a prince — at making such a public display of reckless endangerment — he can’t help but laugh as the officer begins to write up an incident report. He knows he should probably be panicking, or crying, or calling for Minako to pick him up and absolve him, but instead he holds onto Viktor’s hand a little tighter, and keeps his head held high.

Viktor is talking in rapid-fire Russian with the officer, his hands gesturing wildly. Yuuri watches as the officer’s pen stops writing, as his entire expression changes from stony to soft and adoring, and by the very end there seem to be tears in his eyes as he waves them off. Viktor takes the opportunity to get into the driver’s position on the scooter; Yuuri loops his arms around Viktor’s waist, and asks:

“What did you tell the officer to get him to let us go like that?”

He can hear the smile in Viktor’s voice. “I told him we were enjoying our honeymoon,” he says.

Yuuri presses his own smile into Viktor’s back.

* * *

That scooter ride had been the best — and the most terrifying — fifteen minutes of Viktor’s life. Barely clinging onto the Crown Prince’s waist as he wobbles and weaves through the traffic, shouting apologies over his shoulder in Russian at all the people they inconvenience — this is the sort of reckless disaster Yuuri must be overdue for, as a young prince who had been simultaneously raised in and denied all the privileges of his birth.

Yuuri’s laughter is as bright as the afternoon sun beating down on them as Officer Popovich finally corners them near the Yusupov Gardens, writing down the traffic incident with all the gusto of a young man on the force with something to prove. Viktor complains and wheedles his way out of it, even going so far as to insist that he had just wanted to teach his new husband how to ride a scooter on their honeymoon. That gets Officer Popovich’s interest, so Viktor then spins him a story about their great (nonexistent) love story, where he had run into Yuuri at a tea party and it had been sunshine and dancing ever since.

“I just _love_ hearing about romantic fairytales,” Officer Popovich gushes as he crumples up the report. “Your husband sounds like a real Prince Charming.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Viktor replies, turning his best soppy expression on an oblivious and clearly confused Yuuri. “Am I right, my little sun?”

Yuuri looks up at him, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah,” he says. Viktor squeezes his fingers, grinning widely. Officer Popovich bursts into tears.

And now they’ve parked the (thankfully undamaged) Vespa next to several motorcycles along the side of the Yusupov Gardens, and Yuuri’s hand is warm in Viktor’s still as they enter the park. The tree-lined pathways cast dappled patterns of shadow and light across his face as they make their way to the little lake, and in the distance the faint façade of the Yusupov Palace on the Fontanka gleams in the afternoon sun. They pass by couples and families picnicking in the shade, as well as individuals sunbathing out on the lawn.

Near one of the bridges crossing onto the small islands on the pond sits a cart selling morozhenoe, and Yuuri excitedly tugs Viktor over to it, asking him to read the flavours printed on the sign. Viktor ends up buying them two cones of vanilla, and laughs a little at the delighted expression on Yuuri’s face when he first tries his.

“It’s got more cream than ice cream found elsewhere in the world,” he explains, trying not to fixate on how the Crown Prince is lapping away at his cone like an overeager puppy. “This recipe was actually imported from France, but it’s evolved into its own since then.”

“This is delicious,” moans Yuuri. Viktor’s certain he’s never heard anything more erotic in his life.

To distract himself, he looks away towards the pond. Somewhere in the park there’s another band playing music, loud and sweet in the afternoon light. The sun is nowhere near the horizon, despite it already being six. Viktor wonders if that’s going to throw Yuuri off at all.

“I saw you admiring the Flemish painting of the ice skaters this morning,” he says after a moment, sneaking a glance to where Yuuri is now gingerly dabbing ice cream from his mouth with a napkin. “So I thought you’d like to visit this park.”

“I’m guessing this pond sees a lot of skating in the winter?” Yuuri asks.

Viktor nods. “It once held the world’s first figure skating competitions, all the way back in the nineteenth century.”

“Wow,” breathes Yuuri. He stops by an empty bench near the water’s edge and takes a seat, looking out at the swans and ducks floating by. “That must’ve been a sight.”

“Back in those days figure skating looked very different,” agrees Viktor as he sits down next to him, working on his own steadily-dripping cone. “But I bet this is why Russians love the sport so much. It’s like dancing on the ice.”

“And you dance, don’t you?” asks Yuuri. Viktor opens his mouth, remembers that he did tell Yuuri he was a dancer, and closes it with a nod. “Maybe you should try skating sometime.”

“I wouldn’t be as good as you,” Viktor replies almost automatically, and a brief flicker of confusion appears in Yuuri’s eyes before he remembers his own story.

“I guess, but you’d at least know how to move to music,” he says with a grin.

Viktor chuckles. “Speaking of dancing, though, the Mariinsky has a White Nights festival going on right now. I could get us tickets, if you’d like?”

Yuuri purses his lips, his expression thoughtful. “I’ve already seen a show,” he says after a moment.

 _That’s fine_ , Viktor thinks. _He probably saw it from one of the private boxes_. Viktor couldn’t hope to top that, not even with free tickets courtesy of his choreographer aunt.

“What did you think of it?” he asks instead, moving his free hand so that it barely nudges up against Yuuri’s on the bench between them. Yuuri smiles.

“It was beautiful,” he says. “They moved as if in a dream, and when the music stopped, it felt like waking up.”

Viktor exhales, wondering if his own heartbeat could ever be music to this prince’s ears. “Maybe we could explore other kinds of dancing, then,” he suggests, remembering what Christophe had suggested earlier in the morning. “There’s usually several river cruises down the Neva at night with dancing. We could go on one of them, if you’d like.”

“A dance on a river cruise.” Yuuri’s eyes glow with interest. “I’d like that.”

Viktor would like that, too. He’d like a lot of things, though. He’d like his old job back, he’d like a good story to write, and most of all, he’d like to know how morozhenoe tastes from Yuuri’s lips.

But he tamps down that last desire, finishing his own cone while listening to the music burbling across the water. When he turns, however, Yuuri quickly averts his gaze and starts fiddling with the edge of his scarf. The silence between them feels somehow more tense than it had been during the morning, as if something has shifted between them and he doesn’t know what, how, or why.

His phone pings with a message from Christophe, letting them know he’s at the gardens. When the man arrives, Viktor has never been happier to see him.

* * *

They go to the Oceanarium, an extensive aquarium contained within a shopping mall across the Fontanka. Yuuri is captivated by the sharks that meander across the glass viewing tunnel, craning his head and turning around to keep them in sight as the moving platform takes him past.

He’s been to plenty of aquariums in Japan and all over Asia, but he’s never been to one quite like this before. He can feel Viktor’s body heat next to him, can smell his aftershave muted from a day of sightseeing. And the longer he lingers there, with the proximity of Viktor’s forearm raising goosebumps on his own, the quicker his self-control seems to ebb away.

Somehow, whenever he looks over at Viktor, the man seems to be busy doing other things on his phone. Yuuri feels cold misery churning in his stomach whenever he catches the man doing that. It’s as if Viktor is tiring of him. Anyone else who hadn’t made it their job to accompany him everywhere would have thrown in the towel long ago.

He’s not particularly interesting, not particularly pretty. It’s remarkable that he hasn’t been spotted just yet, but maybe that’s testament to how completely anonymous his scarf and hat and glasses make him. He’s just a dime a dozen tourist in this camouflage, blending into a post-Communist urban jungle as best as he can. But at the same time, not being recognised save for the guards at the Hermitage really hammers in the fact that ultimately, he’s not anyone special. So what if he and his father can trace their ancestry back to the gods? Japan is a modern country now. The gods are a lot less relevant now than they were before, and the treatment of the Imperial Family says just as much.

They step off the moving platform, heading into the marine mammal exhibit of the aquarium. Viktor has moved to the other side, with Christophe between them, and the lump rises higher in Yuuri’s throat as he watches the man studiously type at his phone. Christophe, on the other hand, takes a couple pictures of Yuuri as they stop in front of an observation pane looking into a vast tank with four frolicking seals inside. One of them swims up to Yuuri, nosing curiously at the glass, and for a brief moment Yuuri is reminded of himself, waving down at the gathered crowds at the palace whenever his father gives addresses from behind the bulletproof glass panes of the reception hall.

Set on display like an animal in a tank. That’s what Mari had said five years ago, shortly before she eloped with the son of some music industry tycoon and left the family. He sees it more clearly now than ever, having snuck over to the other side of the chrysanthemum curtain. What’s the point of going back now, now that he knows what it’s like to be ordinary?

“You really like seals, huh?” asks Christophe after a moment. Yuuri startles out of his reverie to see Christophe and Viktor watching him, Viktor quickly looking down at his phone once he catches Yuuri staring.

He laughs. “They are very graceful animals in the water,” he replies neutrally, and steps away from the glass.

* * *

The Oceanarium closes at seven, so they are duly kicked out then and begin to head back towards the Fontanka. The sun is still burning brightly outside, though it has inched a little lower in the sky. Some of the clouds are now streaked gold and grey, and the windows on the various buildings gleam in the afternoon light.

Viktor leads them back across the Fontanka to a green building sporting eight pillars along its façade. Off to the side of this building, just past the doors and windows of the corner pub, there sits a nondescript door with a couple signs taped to its surface in Russian. Viktor tries the door handle, and it creaks open slowly and ominously, revealing a dimly lit interior.

“What’s this?” Yuuri breathes from next to him. Viktor grins, stepping over the threshold.

“Arguably one of the most magical places in the city,” he says, looking upwards at the sunlight filtering down from the upper windows of a six-pillared rotunda. Yuuri steps out as well, his eyes closing in the golden light. Christophe quickly snaps a picture.

A cloud passes over and obscures the sun, and suddenly the sky is grey and moody. Yuuri steps around the room, glancing at the plaques on the wall, before looking up at the spiral staircase that seems to extend into the heavens.

“Should we go up?” he asks.

“If you want,” says Viktor.

Slowly they cross the room to the cast iron staircase, heading upwards to the second landing. Viktor watches Yuuri skim his fingertips against the wall, where the faded imprints of graffiti from previous visitors can barely be seen.

“They paint over the messages, but new ones always pop up,” says Viktor, gesturing to a thin pencil-scratched sentence on the wall. “This place used to be a great hangout for rebellious teenagers because of the ties it had to Satanism.”

“Satanism?” echoes Yuuri, wide-eyed.

Viktor laughs. “There’s a rumour that this rotunda is at the centre of a pentagram of similar structures scattered through the city. So it’s supposed to be a portal to the other world or something.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know which story is worse, this one, or the one you told me about the lions,” he says.

“Would I lie to you?” asks Viktor, though his gut clenches at it.

Yuuri snorts. “I thought the lions only bit liars,” he points out.

“Touché,” Viktor declares. “But I swear, that’s what people think this place is. It used to belong to some nobleman who was supposedly part of a masonic lodge, and they were rumoured to do rituals here. So if you write a wish on one of the walls here, it’s sure to come true.”

“Because, what, the devil will grant it?” asks Yuuri, wrinkling his nose.

“It’s just some harmless fun,” replies Viktor, shrugging.

Yuuri shakes his head. “What’s the point?” he asks, his eyes flickering past Viktor’s to stare pointedly at the wall behind him. “What I wish for won’t come true.”

And Viktor wonders if he’s hallucinating the look of longing that flits across the prince’s handsome face as he says that, at the way his gaze briefly darts to lock with Viktor’s before returning to their original distant stare. Yuuri’s eyes are a little watery; he absently rubs them before brushing his fingers along Viktor’s forearm as he passes him down the staircase.

Viktor wants to reach for him, wants to pull him closer and never let him go. But instead he clenches his hands at his side, watching the prince slowly descend to where Christophe is waiting for them. It takes him a moment to remember to follow, as the ghost of Yuuri’s hands on his skin makes him forget the rest of the world.

Christophe has the strangest expression on his face when Viktor finally rejoins them outside the building. “I’ve, uh, promised to meet up with someone for dinner,” he says, his hazel eyes scrutinising as Viktor runs a hand through his hair and tries to look anywhere except at Yuuri. “Do you two have any plans for the night, though? It’s going to be light out until eleven or so.”

“We’re going to go dancing on a river cruise,” says Yuuri cheerily.

“Ooh, one of the jazz boats?” asks Christophe.

“No, one of the newer ones,” says Viktor. Christophe makes an ‘ah’ of recognition and grins, tapping at his nose.

“I’m considering taking my date to watch the bridges go up,” he says. “We could meet with you two there?”

“I’ll text you the details,” promises Viktor.

“Please do,” purrs Christophe with a grin. “Well, I’ll leave you kids to it. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, all right?”

Viktor tries to send him his best betrayed look — there’s no way his self-control will last until the cruise without a third wheel — but Christophe only flashes him his cheekiest smile, as if to say that karma has come back to bite Viktor in the ass.

(Karma really has a painful bite.)

Viktor watches Christophe head off to the nearest tram stop, before turning to Yuuri. The Crown Prince is studying his feet, his hands shoved into his pockets. Somehow his posture is still perfect, which makes the entire pose slightly comical and totally adorable.

Viktor extends a hand. “Let’s go to dinner,” he suggests. “And then we need to go take my dog out before we head to the river cruise. How’s that sound?”

Yuuri’s expression lights up, like the sun coming out of a stormcloud. “That sounds wonderful,” he replies.

That’s when Viktor realises, with a sudden flutter in his chest, that he has indeed fucked up this story a lot worse than Yuri Plisetsky could have ever done.

Because he has gone and fallen in love with the Crown Prince of Japan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kunaicho = Imperial Household Agency, just to clarify. It's a governmental agency in Japan dedicated to running the lives and public appearances of Japan's Imperial Family. The "chrysanthemum curtain" is a concept derived from the extreme mystery shrouding the Imperial Family as a result.
> 
> Morozhenoe = Russian ice cream. The specific kind that they eat in this chapter is called Plombir. 
> 
> All of the locations described here (except Café Zhenya) are actual locations in Saint Petersburg! They are, in order: The Hermitage, Nevsky Avenue, the Italian Bridge, the Church of the Saviour on Spilled Blood, the House of Books, Kazan Cathedral, Bankovsky Bridge, Yusupov Gardens, the Oceanarium (they have seal shows on specific days at specific times), and the Rotunda. Barring a greater amount of time at the Hermitage (as it is an extensive art museum) you can get through all of these in a day as most are 20 minutes or less of travel time in between each other.
> 
> The book _The Silent Chrysanthemums_ is referring to a controversial book published by an investigative reporter named Ben Hills called _Princess Masako: Prisoner of the Chrysanthemum Throne_ where it purports to show the extent to which the Imperial Household Agency has bullied Crown Princess Masako, and how as a result she suffers from clinical depression. The Imperial Household Agency has maintained to this day that the Crown Princess actually suffers from "adjustment disorder" following her marriage to the Crown Prince and the pressure to produce a son. The topic discussed in the book about Yuuri, however, is borrowed from news reports that Crown Princess Masako's daughter, Aiko, Princess Toshi, suffered bullying during her primary school years. 
> 
> Additionally, the story Viktor makes up for Officer Popovich is actually a reference to how Crown Prince Naruhito met his future wife!
> 
> Let me know if you have other questions!


	3. say you love me (just for today)

One of the first public events Yuuri had attended when he became old enough to start doing so had been a dinner party with the Prime Minister and the Governor of Tokyo. He had only been thirteen at the time, listening to his father the Emperor talking politics with politicians through possibly the dullest five-course meal of his life.

The day after that, while he practiced tracing figures in the little private ice rink that had been set up for him in a largely-empty wing of Togu Palace, he told Minako that he never wanted to go to one of those boring political dinners again. She had laughed and suggested he wait until he turns eighteen.

He’s twenty-three now, and political dinners are still an ordeal. But at least he’s used to them now, having gone home from Harvard to one almost every semester. He’s had plenty of practice masking away his emotions, curtailing his opinions and lowering his voice. Sometimes he even just coasts through the courses, humming and nodding as the politicians hem and haw alongside him, only ever stopping to offer little comments according to the script Minako had devised for him.

This dinner with Viktor feels worse than all the political dinners he’s sat through put together. He’s scriptless, supportless, and in a completely foreign country, and the worst thing is the way his heart pounds in his chest every time Viktor’s sky-blue eyes lock with his. Surely the man could hear it thumping at him across the table? But Viktor seems obliviously beautiful as ever, still somehow convinced that Yuuri was Yuuri Katsuki, budding competitive figure skater, instead of who he really is.

“What made you fall in love?” asks Viktor.

Yuuri blinks at him from over the rim of his water glass. “What?” he asks intelligently.

“With the ice,” explains Viktor, because of course he wasn’t talking about the current tension between them like a gravitational pull forcing them into orbit around each other. “With skating.”

“It calms me down,” replies Yuuri. That’s not a lie. Considering that he’s never actually competed — no time for an heir to the Chrysanthemum Throne to practice quad jumps when he has to learn about the economic woes of the southern prefectures, after all — he’s never had to deal with the tensions of competing. Besides, his life off the ice was stressful enough. “Sometimes when I’m feeling troubled, I just go out on the ice and trace some figures, and the solution comes to me soon after.”

“That’s how I feel sometimes,” says Viktor thoughtfully. Yuuri vaguely wonders if Viktor’s feet are callused from dancing, too.

Their server comes over soon enough. They beam too broadly at Viktor as they take his order, and Yuuri feels like tucking himself further into his scarf when the server turns to him. He stammers out what he wants, taking a sip of his water afterwards just to be spared having to talk some more. Viktor also orders two glasses of wine.

“The night’s young,” he says with a wink, and Yuuri feels his face heat up in response.

The dinner passes in a blur after that — Yuuri’s half-convinced he coasts through it — and as soon as they finish cleaning the parsley-infused chocolate ganache from their plates, Viktor calls for the check. Yuuri’s head is buzzing from the combination of wine and chocolate and Viktor. In turn, Viktor seems blithely unaffected as he pays the check, before leaping out of his chair and declaring that Makkachin couldn’t wait any longer.

The walk back to Viktor’s apartment doesn’t take too long. The streets are coming fully alive now that now it’s past nine, though the sun is still up, now tinting the sky in shades of pink and gold. A brisk breeze blows at their hair as they pull up in front of Viktor’s apartment building, passing by the girl who had been passed out on the third floor landing on their way up the stairs.

She takes one look at Yuuri and backs up against the railing, her eyes wide. Yuuri waves nervously, before rushing to keep up with Viktor.

Makkachin is excited to see him once Viktor unlocks the door, nearly tackling him to the ground and covering him with loving licks. Viktor fills Makkachin’s food bowl to get him to let Yuuri back up, before flitting down the hall to his bedroom.

“The cruise isn’t until midnight, so we’ve still got time to freshen up and take Makkachin out,” he says over his shoulder. Yuuri nods, shuffling over to the couch and picking up the remote.

“May I turn on the TV?” he asks.

“Be my guest,” Viktor calls, so Yuuri switches the TV on and flicks through the channels until he finds one in English. It’s running through a news segment on the crisis in Caracas, the newscaster’s tone detached, impersonal against the brutal images of violence on the screen.

“ _In less serious but similarly troubling news, the continued illness of the Crown Prince of Japan may see an entire halt to his goodwill trip through Eastern Europe. The Imperial Household Agency says that if the Crown Prince’s condition worsens, they may need to fly him home to Tokyo for treatment_.”

Yuuri watches the press footage of him waving from the reception hall windows, spliced with footage caught of his car as it made its way up Nevsky Avenue towards the Hermitage on his first afternoon in the city. Guiltily, he shuts off the TV and puts his head in his hands, rubbing at his temples.

He can’t stay with Viktor forever. After this dance, he’ll have to ask Viktor to take him back. Turn into a pumpkin and drive away in his glass slipper.

All fairy tales have to end somehow.

* * *

Yuuri’s expression is subdued when Viktor returns with a better outfit for the dance. The prince only nods when Viktor suggests that he freshen up and borrow one of Viktor’s smaller jackets; moments later he emerges from the bedroom adjusting the lapels of a navy-coloured blazer.

“I just want to thank you,” the prince says quietly, looking at Viktor’s shoulder as he fiddles with his cuffs, “for your time and your money, for opening your home to me and… and letting me spend time with your dog.” He smiles. “No one has ever been this selflessly kind to me before.”

Viktor’s heart clenches. “No need to thank me,” he says quietly. “It was my pleasure.” And his heartache, as he takes in the careful way the prince has gelled back his hair. Somehow it, plus the glasses, makes him look even more devastatingly handsome than before.

“Let’s walk Makkachin and then go to the party,” Yuuri suggests, offering his arm, and Viktor takes it with his heart lodged firmly in his throat.

Their river cruise departs from a quay on the Fontanka, travelling upwards until it joins with the Neva at 1AM. They’ll be on the river in time to see the raising of the bridges, before returning to the quay. Viktor has been on similar cruises before, back in his university days when celebrating the White Nights usually involved copious amounts of alcohol and anonymous fumbles in the shadows of nightclubs and closed metro stations. He’d done his fair share of getting stranded on Vasilevsky Island with people, though that had never led to the inevitable romances that the media seems to like to talk about.

But he’s not planning to get stranded with Yuuri. At least, not tonight. Surely there must be a limit to a prince’s patience with the smitten sighs of a lowly commoner. After this dance, he’ll come clean. He’ll tell Yuuri who he really is, that he knows who Yuuri really is, and that he’s too far in love with him to publish the story he had originally planned to write about him.

And then he’ll ask if Yuuri would like a cab back to whichever fancy hotel he’s staying at, and that will be that.

It’s a solid plan, though his heart wrenches at it all the same. In the soft pink light of the midnight sunset, Yuuri looks almost ethereal as he walks by his side. Viktor burns, harder than he’s ever burned before, with a need to touch him, to claim him, to stay close to him and never leave. But instead he tears his gaze away to look out at the Fontanka running merrily ahead, and the boat that must be theirs waiting patiently at its quay.

The music is already playing by the time they show their tickets and board the cruise. There’s a live DJ already running a playlist of loud club music, the electric beats pounding to the hectic pace of Viktor’s own heart. Across the dance floor from the DJ is what looks like a very well-stocked bar.

“What colour would you like?” Viktor asks when a passing attendant offers them a selection of glowing wristbands. “Blue means you’re seeking men, pink means you’re seeking women, purple means you have no preference, and green means you’re not interested.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “Not interested in what?” he asks.

“Meeting people,” replies Viktor.

Yuuri blinks, and then understanding suddenly dawns on his face. Slowly, he reaches for the green. “I’m only going to leave this boat with you,” he reasons, and Viktor has the sudden urge to drag Yuuri off the boat and kiss him until he’s breathless.

Instead he reaches for the green as well. “Same here,” he says, and hopes that the smile flickering across Yuuri’s face isn’t just a trick of the dimly flashing club lights.

The cruise departs from the quay soon enough, slowly making its way up the Fontanka. There’s so many people on it that Viktor’s convinced the cruise is violating some sort of health and safety regulation. Many of the partygoers are university-age, dressed to the nines for a night of dancing and revelry. Some of them stop and gape at Yuuri, who doesn’t seem to notice.

“Let’s go upstairs for photos,” Yuuri says, leading Viktor to a flight of stairs heading up to the observation deck of the boat. Up here the speakers are still playing music, though at a less head-pounding volume, and there are garlands of flowers strung with fairy lights looped around the railings. There’s already some people up here taking photos; as they pass under the Anichkov Bridge, Viktor snaps a selfie of them with one of the horse statues on the side.

The banks of the Fontanka are crawling with people, most of them headed down Nevsky Avenue in the direction of the Palace and Trinity Bridges. A gaggle of drunk lads start whistling and waving from the shore, and a startled Yuuri waves back.

“You wave like the Queen of England,” Viktor remarks, grinning.

Yuuri freezes mid-wave, and then starts moving his arms at the elbow with a strange look on his face, as if he can’t believe this is how normal people wave. Viktor laughs. Yuuri waves his arms at the next bunch of people from the shore who cheer them on.

They stay on the observation deck for a moment longer, before heading back down into the bustling party inside the ship. Already the room is foggier than it had been at the start, and the light is pulsing brighter in front of their eyes. Viktor spots the bar again, and heads over to buy them drinks.

“Pick your poison,” he says to Yuuri.

“Champagne,” says Yuuri. “Or vodka, whichever one is easier.”

“Two shots of Russian Standard,” Viktor tells the bartender. “And start a tab for us.”

Within a couple minutes he’s fetching two shots of vodka, handing one to Yuuri. Yuuri’s eyes are sparkling in the strobe lights of the club as he takes his. “So how do you say ‘cheers’ in Russian?” he asks.

Viktor laughs. “That depends on the circumstance,” he admits.

“And what sort of cheer would you say in this circumstance, then?” asks Yuuri.

Viktor clinks his shot glass against Yuuri’s. “Poyekhali,” he replies, and the two of them down their shots. To Viktor’s surprise, Yuuri takes their glasses and asks for another round, which he gets within minutes.

He hands the shot glass back to Viktor then. “In Japan, we say ‘kampai’,” he says.

Viktor grins, as Yuuri clinks their glasses together. “Kampai,” he replies, and they down their second shot.

Two shots turn into three, into four. Yuuri tugs at his collar after five, a flush visible on his cheeks even in the terrible club lighting. He starts to bounce along to the music, his hips swaying with the beat.

Viktor sets their empties on the bar and extends a hand to Yuuri. “Let’s go dance,” he suggests, and Yuuri eagerly assents.

* * *

The instant Yuuri steps onto the boat, all his thoughts about fairy tale endings fly out of his head.

It’s not exactly Cinderella’s ball, but it pulses with a youthful energy that draws him in all the same. Even the DJ looks to be about eighteen, though he’s managing the playlist with considerable ease. After a while, the artificial heartbeats of the tune currently pounding in Yuuri’s ears feel indistinguishable from the real one thrumming in his chest.

Viktor is leading him out onto the dance floor now. Yuuri’s face is warmer than usual, but at least the anxious buzzing in his head about making a fool of himself on the dance floor has ebbed away somewhat. Besides, these dances don’t seem to require much knowledge of steps or beats beyond keeping his hips shaking to the pulsation of the music. All around him, other people are bobbing along to the song, some of them waving their hands in the air. Entire friend groups are dancing in circles near the centre of the floor, while couples remain locked in each other’s embrace near the edge.

Yuuri places a hand on Viktor’s waist, drawing him close. To his delight, Viktor goes willingly, one hand coming to rest at Yuuri’s nape. They move together for a moment, before Yuuri pulls back, amusement burbling through him without the usual defenses to keep them in check.

“You’re a dancer,” he teases. “Surely you know better steps than this.”

Viktor snorts. “When the dance style is ‘anything goes’, anything really does go,” he replies.

Yuuri blames the alcohol for making him do what he does next. “Oh?” he asks, arching an eyebrow. “Does this go, then?” And he turns around, bumping his ass against Viktor’s crotch as his arms loop back around Viktor’s neck.

A shiver runs down his spine when Viktor’s hands ghost along the hem of his shirt. “Oh yes,” Viktor’s voice rumbles in his ear. “This definitely goes.”

Yuuri can’t help it. He giggles, grinding back against Viktor, and is rewarded by a choked-off groan from the other man. Viktor thrusts his hips to meet his, and _oh_. Had this been anyone else, Yuuri would have been running for the hills.

But it’s Viktor, and his head is buzzing slightly, and everything needs to be magical for just a _little_ longer. So Yuuri turns around, tangling his fingers into Viktor’s belt loops and pulling him closer. In turn, Viktor’s fingers continue to tease along the strip of skin at his waist, and Yuuri has half a mind to go to the Hague and declare this a new form of torture.

“Viktor,” he breathes, but the rest of what he wants to say shrivels on his tongue. What exactly is he supposed to say? How does he express his flattery and interest without looking presumptuous or ridiculous?

But Viktor, darling Viktor, bumps his forehead against Yuuri’s almost as if in understanding. “Yuuri,” he murmurs in response, Yuuri’s name rolling from his lips with even more reverence than from the most deferential courtier.

Yuuri’s heart twists into a knot of happiness and apprehension. He used to think he had very little needs, as everything he could ever want had been provided for him before he had even thought about them. But now he understands more painfully than ever the terrible burn of wanting someone he knows he cannot have, someone who, based on the way he holds Yuuri, might actually want him back.

But maybe he’s just kidding himself. “I need a drink,” he blurts out, and tears himself away to head back to the bar, leaving Viktor behind.

* * *

“Green, huh? So you two finally worked it out?”

Viktor looks up to see Christophe standing before him, a blue wristband dangling from his wrist. “And I see you haven’t worked it out with yours,” he remarks.

“Masumi said he wanted to keep it casual a bit longer,” replies Christophe. “I have no complaints.”

Viktor chuckles, turning around to scan the crowd for Yuuri before spying him approaching the bar. He then turns to Christophe, tugging him by the arm towards a quieter corner of the party. With one more glance towards the bar, Viktor says, “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?” asks Christophe in mock innocence.

Viktor exhales. “Lie to him. I have to tell him.”

“What, that you’re doing an article on him?” asks Christophe.

“Well, yes, but it’s not like there’s any article to write,” Viktor points out. Christophe raises an eyebrow.

“There’s plenty of material,” he says.

“Yes. But there’s no story.”

Christophe waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Because you two worked it out?”

Viktor shakes his head. “No, I — no.” He sighs. “There’s just no story.”

“Oh.” Christophe nods, claps him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that. Imagine all the fame and glory you could have had.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to live with it,” Viktor points out miserably. “Not after now. Not like this.”

Christophe hums. “I don’t know what to say, Viktor,” he admits quietly. “Did he turn you down, or?”

“No, it’s worse,” murmurs Viktor, as he watches Yuuri take another shot of vodka at the bar. “I think he might be interested, too.”

Christophe whistles. At the bar, Yuuri slams the shot glass down.

“Well, if it’s of any consolation, I think half the internet thinks you two are cute together,” Christophe says after a moment.

Viktor raises an eyebrow, so Christophe pulls up the Instagram tag of #CrownPrincesDayOff and shows him. Viktor groans as he sees the sheer number of photos that have been added since Yuri Plisetsky showed him the tag. They’d been spotted on the metro, along the Fontanka, even at the Oceanarium.

“My favourite is the dashcam footage of Yuuri driving the Vespa and narrowly colliding with some car ahead,” teases Christophe. “I can’t believe you let him do that.”

“He got into the driver’s seat,” replies Viktor, watching Yuuri down another shot.

Christophe chuckles, especially as he follows Viktor’s gaze. “I didn’t know His Highness had a fondness for the sauce,” he remarks.

“You saw him blowing bubbles into his champagne at your first meeting,” Viktor points out. His own head is somewhere between buzzing and pounding. He could do with a cold pint of Budvar right now, or perhaps the fruitiest daiquiri the cruise offers. But when he heads over to the bar, Yuuri giggles and waves at him with his cheeks flushed even more than before, and Viktor quickly gets two glasses of water instead.

“Yuuri, let’s not kill ourselves,” he suggests.

“I’m very tired,” retorts Yuuri.

“In that case, maybe we should go get some fresh air.” Viktor checks his phone, noticing that it’s past one already. Outside the heavily tinted windows, the sun has slipped over the tops of the palace buildings. “We’ll be heading out to the Neva soon! You want to be outside to see the bridges go up, I’m sure.”

“Mm,” agrees Yuuri, gingerly sipping his water before setting the glass down. “Okay, let’s go upstairs.”

Christophe joins them as they head up to the observation deck again. Yuuri stumbles a little on the ladder, but he gets up in one piece, running out to to the stern and dangling over the edge with a shout of laughter as the boat finishes veering out from the narrow Fontanka River to the wider Neva. Just behind them, the gardens of the Summer Palace gleam in the golden light of the setting sun.

The banks of the Neva are absolutely crowded with people. Even from out here Viktor can make out the flashes of cameras along the darkened shore. Yuuri also doesn't seem to care about cameras as he waves his arms madly, whooping as the wind blows at his hair.

“Viktor, I’m flying!” he yells, and Viktor laughs as he comes up by Yuuri’s side.

“You’re drunk is what you are,” he says, unable to help the teasing cadence of his voice. Yuuri turns to him, one hand reaching out to cup his cheek, and Viktor is suddenly reminded of Yuuri’s drunken declarations from last night, when he said that he would walk Makkachin and be Viktor’s date.

And maybe in a way that had happened. But he keeps those comments to himself, coaxing Yuuri to turn around and smile for Christophe’s camera instead. Yuuri waves his arms at Christophe, before collapsing in giggles against Viktor’s side. Christophe pockets his phone.

They stay there on the observation deck, Yuuri curled up against Viktor’s side and leaning heavily against the railing, his face aglow from the red-orange sunset and the soft twinkling fairy lights. The sun sparkles as it kisses the waters of the Neva, bright against the already-glowing streetlights of the city. And then, as the sky begins to darken incrementally with the sun’s slow descent to just below the horizon, the bridge just before their boat starts to break in half.

Yuuri straightens up in wide-eyed wonder at that.

Slowly, the broken halves of the bridge begin to rise as a flotilla of ships — their own boat included — start to pass under it. Christophe takes a picture of Yuuri in front of the first bridge before they glide through to the sound of cheering on the shore.

It’s nights like this that remind Viktor of how much he loves his city. As he watches the rest of their boat pass through the first bridge, he can’t help but feel like he’s part of something greater than himself. Slowly yet inexorably, Saint Petersburg comes to life in front of him, its heartbeat strong and sure in the cheers of the people on the shore.

And next to him, Yuuri is turning ‘round and ‘round, that familiar enraptured expression etched all over his face. “This is so beautiful,” he breathes, tucking his hand into Viktor’s and squeezing. “I’m so happy.”

Viktor wants to hear that from him every day. Wants to tease it out of him in lazy moments on the couch, wants to draw it out of him during moments of passion in his bed. But out of all the moments that he wants, he wants most to hear it tumbling out of Yuuri’s lips like a prayer every morning, as they open their eyes to each other.

How could he ever share such a private moment with the world? How could he have looked at Yuuri in the past and thought of him as just a chance at redemption?

“I’m so happy, too,” he says, cupping Yuuri’s cheek.

There’s the sound of Christophe’s camera shutter.

* * *

Yuuri stays up on the observation deck until he’s seen his fill of the rising bridges. Once they've cleared the Palace Bridge, he goes downstairs in search of more drinks and more dancing.

Already the midsummer twilight is settling in all around. The party around him rages wilder and wilder, the dancers moving together in one writhing mass of limbs and bodies. Yuuri folds himself into the throng, the high-energy music thrumming in his veins. Nothing else in the world seems to matter — nothing, that is, save for Viktor.

He looks around, trying to spot Viktor. All he can see at the edges of the dance floor are the black-and-white suits of the bouncers, their hands folded behind their backs as they observe the mayhem. Suddenly, there's a sickening churning in his stomach. Yuuri quickly asks a girl nearby where the washroom is, and she points it out.

The hallway to the washroom is glutted by couples making out against the wall, as well as others who’ve had too much to drink slumped against the floor. Yuuri steps over all of them, heading into the nearest empty stall and locking himself inside.

It’s here when he really starts feeling the swaying of the boat. The alcohol burns on its way back up, and Yuuri quickly flushes as soon as he’s just dry heaving. For a moment he just lingers on the disgusting tile floor, looking around at the graffiti scrawled all over the stalls. Phone numbers, drawings of dicks, couples’ names — the room seems to tilt and spin around him, and with a small groan he rests his head against the stall door.

There’s a knock. “There’s someone in here,” Yuuri shouts.

“I just wanted to check on you,” a woman’s voice resounds in Japanese. Blinking, Yuuri clambers to his feet and opens the door, opening it on a woman in a dark suit, her hair pulled in a low bun at her nape. He frowns and squints, and suddenly Yuuko Nishigori’s face comes into focus.

“Yuuko-san,” he breathes. His Chief Chamberlain makes a clucking noise.

“Your Highness, what on earth have you done to yourself?” Yuuri finds himself being pushed back onto the toilet seat, Yuuko wetting her pocket square and dabbing gingerly at his lips. “Have you had too much to drink?”

“Never enough,” Yuuri replies vaguely.

“And on a cruise like this, no less,” Yuuko sighs. “You’re lucky we spotted you and your friend boarding this boat. We don’t need you to make our press cover story a true one, after all.”

“Are you taking me home?” Yuuri asks miserably.

“Of course,” says Yuuko, now tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “When the boat returns to the quay in the next —” she checks her watch — “half an hour, there’ll be a car waiting to take you back to the Belmond Grand. We’ve been so worried about you, Your Highness. Have you at least had your fun?”

He knows she’s really actually concerned about him; it’s in every line of her body, in the sparkle of her eyes. But the words she says are emotionless, cold, like a mother chastising her child. Yuuri feels revulsion and anger curling deep inside him.

“I’m not a kid,” he snaps.  

“Of course not, Your Highness,” replies Yuuko.

“Which means I don’t need you picking me up,” retorts Yuuri, shoving past her out of the stall. He only pauses at the sink to rinse out the acidic taste in his mouth, raising his head to see Yuuko’s reflection fretting just behind his in the mirror.

“Yuuri-kun,” Yuuko pleads, her voice soft. “Please come home.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says, before putting his glasses back on and rushing out of the washroom.

He nearly trips over a passed out girl on his way back up to the party, but almost as soon as he reaches the dance floor he’s yanked back by two of the bouncers — not bouncers, Yuuri realises with a frission of fear. Konoe Shidan.

And not just the ones who had come on the trip with him, either. The Kunaicho have really put effort into getting him back.

“Your Highness.” Yuuko is back in front of him again, her expression apologetic. “Please. Let’s not make a bigger scene than we need to.”

Yuuri screams.

* * *

The creamy sweetness of the White Russian burns on its way down Viktor’s throat. As he finishes the drink, Christophe flashes him a sympathetic look.

“I wish you luck in telling him the truth,” he says. “Might as well tell him I was your photographer, too.”

Viktor chuckles, opening his mouth to speak, but suddenly a scream pierces through the club. The music grinds to a sudden halt. Viktor looks past the stunned partygoers to see a struggle at the edge of the dance floor.

“Viktor!” Yuuri’s voice shrieks. “Help me!”

Viktor is out of his chair in moments. He and Christophe shove their way through the crowd to intercept what looks like several Imperial Guard officers trying to escort Yuuri into a private cabin on the boat. Yuuri is struggling fantastically, his expression frantic as he screams Viktor’s name again.

Viktor turns to Christophe. “I don’t know anything about fighting,” he says.

Christophe chuckles. “When it comes to a bar fight, anything goes,” he retorts, and seizes a nearby chair, slamming it into the back of the nearest guard.

The party descends into chaos soon after that. The guards may be unarmed, but they at least know how to fight, and everything Viktor knows about fighting he had learnt from one too many Bruce Lee movies in his childhood. Still, what little damage he does manage to inflict enables Yuuri to free himself from his guards, fleeing for the ladder heading up to the observation deck.

Viktor is quickly on his tail, almost colliding with the portside railing. The Blagoveshchensky Bridge is approaching, already opened against the indigo-stained dusk. Yuuri clambers onto the railing as the guards emerge from below deck.

“Your Highness!” shouts the woman leading the guards. Viktor turns to find Yuuri already teetering on the railing, his expression pale but determined.

“Yuuri!” Viktor shouts as well, reaching out for him just as he slips over the edge of the railing and into the Neva below. He surfaces briefly, bobbing like a cork for a couple of moments, before the wake of the boat casts a wave that drags him under again.

Viktor gasps. And then, before he has time to psych himself out of it, he’s scrambling over the railing and diving into the river after the prince.

The Neva hits him like a cold punch to the lungs. Viktor’s glad that it’s swimming season, nonetheless, which means that the water is at its warmest during the year. He paddles out to the spot where he could’ve sworn he last saw Yuuri, casting around him wildly for any signs of the other man.

“Yuuri?” he shouts, his voice lost in the roars and cheers from the shore. “Yuuri!”

“Viktor!” A voice responds from a couple meters away. “Viktor, over here!”

“Yuuri!” Viktor gasps, paddling over to where Yuuri is treading water, his glasses nowhere to be seen. “Yuuri, are you — your glasses —”

“That’s fine,” says Yuuri, though he has to squint a little at Viktor’s face. “Did you… did you pay the tab?”

Viktor can’t help the laughter that bursts out of him at that. “Oh _Christ_ , Yuuri, you dodged your bodyguards by jumping off a boat and you’re more worried about the _bar tab_?”

“I’ll reimburse you,” Yuuri replies, his flushed cheeks visible even in the dim lights from shore.

“You can’t do that from out here in the middle of the river,” says Viktor. “Can you swim?”

“Yes, but not usually in my clothes,” replies Yuuri.

“Follow me, then,” says Viktor, and begins to paddle for the shore.

They manage to make their way to the eastern bank, and, with the assistance of people onshore, manage to pull themselves onto a boat skip. For a moment the two of them sit there, Yuuri squeezing gingerly at his wet clothes while Viktor looks out at the lights of the flotilla of river cruises passing by on the water.

“They’ll have people looking for me soon,” says Yuuri after a moment. Viktor looks up at the passerby taking pictures of them, and leaps to his feet.

“They’ll know to come here,” he says, extending his hand. “Come on, let’s make a run for it.”

Yuuri laughs and nods, putting his hand in Viktor’s and running with him back into the city.

The wind might chill him to the bone, and Viktor suspects he’s due for an extremely bad cold soon, but none of that seems to matter as Yuuri runs alongside him, his hand steady and reassuring in Viktor’s. Under the city lights Yuuri is beautiful, even with his clothes sticking to him and his hair dripping in his eyes. In fact, Viktor can’t help but admire the tight cling of Yuuri’s shirt to his body as they run down the lamplit streets.

Everyone seems to be flocking down by the Neva embankment, or cloistered away in nightclubs and bars all night. This means that by the time they pull up to the granite obelisks of the Potseluev Bridge, there are relatively few people gathered on it.

Viktor stops and eyes the expanse of the infamous bridge, casting a longing look at the love locks dangling along the railings. In the distance, the gentle glow of St Isaac's Cathedral is reflected almost moon-like in the waters of the Moyka.

Next to him, Yuuri shifts a little. “What’s so special about this place?” he asks. Viktor laughs sheepishly, rubbing at his nape.

“It’s called the Kissing Bridge,” he says, taking Yuuri’s other hand. “You’re supposed to kiss your lover as you cross, for good luck.”

Yuuri’s cheeks flush a little as they step out onto the bridge. Viktor’s heart is thumping wildly in his chest as they begin to cross; with each beat and each breath, his self-control wears thinner and thinner.

“Yuuri,” he says suddenly when they reach the middle. Yuuri stops, and everything Viktor wants to say to him melts away like snow in springtime.

“Viktor,” echoes Yuuri, and then before Viktor can even react, the Crown Prince of Japan surges upwards onto his tiptoes and kisses him.

* * *

Yuuri’s in so much trouble, he knows. Yuuko’s going to have words about his escape, Minako’s going to have words about the entire running away thing, the press in Japan’s going to have a field day. He’ll never hear the end of how irresponsible he is, how unsuitable he is to be Emperor. There’ll definitely be calls from the conservatives to make him step aside in favour of someone else, like his ninety two-year-old great-uncle who’s already got a foot lodged in the grave.

But none of those things seem as imminently dangerous as the warmth that blossoms in his chest when Viktor _kisses him back_.

Yuuri’s terribly wet and cold, still slightly dizzy from the vodka, still slightly in shock from his unexpected plunge. None of that matters, though, when they break for air, breathing in each other for a moment before Viktor cups his face and kisses him again, open-mouthed and undeniably passionate.

Yuuri feels like he could sprout wings and fly.

Somewhere, in some park nearby, a street musician is playing a slow, romantic ballad. Viktor chuckles at that when they break apart again, before pressing soft kisses all over Yuuri’s face. Slowly he begins to move them in a little dance, swaying in a circle under the glow of the dangling streetlamps overhead. Yuuri slides his hand around Viktor’s waist, pulling him closer.

Looking up into Viktor’s eyes is dangerous; the tenderness in his gaze makes warmth pool in Yuuri’s gut, makes his heart race in a way that robs him of his breath. Yuuri wants to wake to that look every day, wants to know what Viktor looks like first thing in the morning, and if he usually makes eggs with toast when there’s no one else to feed.

Instead he moves his hands up to the lapels of Viktor’s damp jacket, and pulls him into another kiss. Viktor’s hands rest against the small of his back, one finger teasing at the hem of Yuuri’s shirt, and _god_ , will Yuuri ever stop wanting?

“Let’s go home,” he breathes against Viktor’s lips, and Viktor pulls back to look at him with an inscrutable expression before nodding and hailing a cab.

The ride back to Viktor’s flat hums with anticipatory tension. Yuuri feels jittery with excitement and nerves, his mind racing through all the things he could be doing with Viktor soon. Would Viktor expect them to go further than just kissing? Just the thought of doing anything more — of having sex, even — makes his cheeks flush and his already uncomfortable sodden jeans get even tighter.

Dating inexperience aside, he’s had some one-time partners before while studying at Harvard. But none of these men or women had come to him with more in mind than mutual relief and experimentation. And since the Kunaicho tended to track down whoever he slept with to guarantee their nondisclosure, they tended to not want to stick around for long.

This is the first time feelings have gotten in the way, and those feelings are telling him in no uncertain terms that Viktor deserves better than an NDA.

But even as he continues to ruminate on the situation, their cab pulls up in front of Viktor’s apartment. Viktor pays the cabbie with soggy banknotes and an apology, before going to unlock the doors to the building and let Yuuri in.

They take the elevator up, the golden tension between them still bubbling and expanding, desperate for release. Yuuri reaches out, tangles their pinkies together. Viktor smiles at him.

And then — _finally_ — they’re in Viktor’s apartment, and the instant the door closes Viktor is pressing him against the wall, kissing him even as he carelessly tosses his jacket to the ground. Yuuri peels himself out of his blazer as well, throwing it in a sodden heap on the ground before cupping Viktor’s face.

“How far?” Viktor breathes into his ear as he starts to suck a trail down Yuuri’s neck. Yuuri swallows, not sure if the lightheadedness he’s feeling is a side effect of the vodka or Viktor’s kisses.

“To the stars,” he breathes, and Viktor chuckles at that, before sucking a mark into the skin just above Yuuri’s pulse point. Yuuri gasps at that, the heat humming through his body suddenly fanning into a brilliant blaze.

It takes them some effort to kick off their shoes and head down the hall. Makkachin is asleep in the kitchen, but they close the door to the bedroom to prevent untimely interruptions anyway. Viktor’s hands scrabble to peel Yuuri out of his jeans; Yuuri’s hands fumble against the hem of Viktor’s shirt. But eventually their sodden clothes are in a heap on the ground, and Viktor is pressing him into the soft covers of the bed.

Viktor’s mouth is wickedly talented against his skin, warming him right up with even just the barest of kisses. Yuuri feels like he’s being unfolded, being opened up to the ardour burning in Viktor’s eyes. The man’s name falls like a mantra from his lips, a sweet plea to the gods to freeze time and let him remain in this moment forever. He arches his hips, bucking into Viktor’s mouth with a soft moan that grows louder as Viktor’s mouth picks up its pace.

“Do you trust me?” Viktor asks against his skin, his breath whisper soft as he looks up at Yuuri through silver lashes.

Words are failing Yuuri, so he nods instead. Viktor hums, leaning over to the nightstand and rummaging in it for something.

“Close your eyes, moyo solnyshko,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

And Yuuri does, losing himself to the sensation of Viktor’s lips against him once more. Moments later, he feels something prodding against his entrance, and freezes briefly before Viktor coaxes him back into relaxing by taking him even deeper into his throat.

“Viktor,” he breathes, his hands tangling in the bedsheets as he feels the man’s finger nudge into him, gentle but foreign. Viktor patiently works him open, unravelling the remnants of his self-control from the inside even as his mouth and tongue coax Yuuri higher and higher in pleasure.

And then Viktor’s fingers inside him crook _just so_ , and release hits Yuuri in an unexpected wave. He spills into Viktor’s mouth, Viktor’s name a strangled cry torn from his throat. The next time they kiss, he can taste himself on Viktor’s lips.

“Was that okay?” breathes Viktor quietly when they part, and Yuuri nods, vehemently surging up to kiss away any doubts that might linger in the other man’s mind. He flips their positions then, grabbing one of the condom packets and tearing it open, rolling it onto Viktor with an ease that causes the other man’s eyes to widen.

Yuuri can’t help but laugh at that. “Did you think I’ve never done this before?” he asks.

Viktor gapes. “I don’t know what to think,” he admits, a slow smile creeping over his face. Yuuri huffs, before straddling him and trailing a finger down his chest. He then lines Viktor up with himself, teasing the tip against his entrance.

“Yes?” he asks.

Viktor growls. “Don’t you dare stop,” he retorts, and that’s all the encouragement Yuuri needs to sink down onto him.

He pauses when Viktor is completely seated inside him, exhaling at the vaguely familiar ache. It’s been awhile since he last did this, but the reverential look on Viktor’s face is entirely worth it. He reaches for Yuuri, his fingers ghosting across Yuuri’s cheeks, his eyes swimming with a million emotions.

And when he begins to move and Viktor moans his name in pleasure, Yuuri wonders if this is what it feels like to be truly divine.

He begins to echo the dance they had done on the boat just hours ago. Slowly at first, but soon he’s picking up the pace, revelling in the sweet slide of Viktor thick and hard inside him. Viktor arches to meet him, his hair billowing out against the pillow in a silver halo as he lets Yuuri take his pleasure. After a moment, however, Yuuri finds that he craves more, and leans in to kiss him.

“Give it to me,” he whispers, nipping against Viktor’s lips, and that’s all the invitation Viktor needs to meet him halfway, holding his hips in place to thrust into him harder and faster.

The world narrows down to just the two of them; his thoughts narrow down to just chasing release with Viktor at his side. Yuuri no longer knows what language he’s saying besides Viktor’s name; he no longer even has a concept of his _own_ name. In the circle of Viktor’s arms, precious little else seems to matter. He kisses a trail of marks down Viktor’s porcelain-pale skin, claiming ownership over the man for just a little while longer.

He’s on borrowed time now, stealing kisses from Viktor in the wee hours of the morning before he has to return to his previous life. Yuuko’s right, he’s been too troublesome already. The fairytale ended a long time ago, when he refused to do the right thing and return to his duty. Everything he does now is just delaying the inevitable.

Still, he can be a little selfish for just a little longer. He can hear Viktor’s breath growing ragged, can feel the pace of his hips grow frantic. With a growl Viktor shifts so that Yuuri’s back hits the comforter, and Viktor is thrusting into him from above, each stroke deep and hard and perfect. His hands slip down to touch Yuuri again, moving in time with his thrusts until Yuuri can almost taste the sweet edge of release approaching once more.

And then with a low moan, Viktor comes. It doesn’t take long for Yuuri to follow after, spilling into Viktor’s hands. His own reach up to cup Viktor’s face as he melts, boneless, into Viktor’s hungry yet soft kisses.

Viktor cleans them up, tying up the condom and disposing of it quickly before returning to bed. Yuuri covers himself in the comforter; Viktor slides into it next to him and entwines their fingers, pressing kisses to the tips of each.

“What time is it?” Yuuri asks quietly, suddenly unable to meet Viktor’s gaze.

Viktor looks over at something over Yuuri’s shoulder, and sighs. “Four,” he says.

Yuuri looks down at their fingers, and presses his own kisses to the tips of Viktor’s. There’s a lump in his throat that he can’t swallow, no matter how hard he tries. The news broadcast and Yuuko’s words all echo loudly in his ears.

The fairytale has ended, and now it’s time to pay the price.

* * *

Viktor would’ve liked nothing more than to linger in the post-coital glow a little longer. Would’ve liked to kiss Yuuri to sleep, holding him in his arms. And he knows Yuuri would’ve wanted it, too, given the lethargy in his limbs as he slowly pulls himself out of the bed and collects the clothes he’s discarded from the foot of the bed.

Yuuri vanishes into the bathroom, and moments later the sound of running water can be heard as he turns on the shower. Viktor clambers out of bed as well, throwing on a loose t-shirt and sweatpants before heading into the living room to grab his phone from his jacket pocket. He’s glad that he’d invested in a waterproof case after one too many close encounters while trying to wash Makkachin, because his phone is none the worse for wear despite an unexpected plunge into the Neva.

Turning it on, Viktor is suddenly beset by multiple missed calls and texts from Christophe and Yakov. He texts them both to assure them that he’s fine. Christophe’s immediate response is for Viktor to turn on the news, and so Viktor does:

“ — _pulled out of the Neva by helpful locals. Dimitri Kozlov, one of the eyewitnesses to this miraculous rescue, says that the couple was very thankful for the help but refused to stay for medical treatment, instead running off into the city again. There was speculation that perhaps the couple had criminal ties, until someone pointed out that one of the men looked very much like Crown Prince Yuuri of Japan, who is reported to be currently indisposed due to illness_.”

“ _The Imperial Household Agency declined to comment on the similarities between the mystery man pulled out of the Neva and the Crown Prince_ — ”

The TV turns off abruptly. Viktor looks up to see Yuuri holding the remote. He’s wearing Viktor’s bathrobe, his hair still damp from the shower. “I left our clothes up to dry,” he explains. “They’ll be done by morning, I think.”

 _And you’ll be gone by morning_ , Viktor thinks, but he only says, “you seem to wear my clothes a lot.”

“I do,” agrees Yuuri, setting the remote down on the dining room table.

“Suits you,” replies Viktor, not sure of what else to say. Yuuri sends him an enigmatic smile over his shoulder as he crosses to the kitchen, helping himself to a glass of water from the pitcher by the sink. Next to him, Makkachin stirs, letting out a sleepy little huff as Yuuri stoops to scratch at his collar.

“Maybe I could cook you breakfast before I go?” the prince asks suddenly. “My mother was an excellent cook. She used to help her family run a ryokan, before she met my father. She would always make me katsudon whenever I did well in school. I could make you some, if you want.”

Viktor feels a smile tugging at his lips, despite the sting of tears in his eyes. “What’s katsudon?” he asks. “It sounds delicious.”

“Breaded pork cutlet bowl,” says Yuuri thoughtfully, opening Viktor’s fridge as if he’d actually be able to find ingredients for food in there beyond a carton of eggs, a couple Chinese takeout boxes, and three empty bottles of wine that Viktor had forgotten to recycle. “Rice and peas and egg entangled with juicy pork cutlets… shame you don’t have much in here.”

“Sorry,” says Viktor. “I eat out a lot.”

“Do you like that?” wonders Yuuri, closing the fridge doors with a snap.

Viktor laughs. “Life isn’t always about what we like, is it?” he wonders, and a shadow crosses over Yuuri’s expression at that. He nods, thoughtfully sipping at his water, before bending down to pat Makkachin’s head. Then, slowly, he crosses over to the sofa and takes a seat, looking back at Viktor.

“Come,” he suggests, and Viktor goes, sitting down next to him on the couch and putting an arm around him, pulling him close. Yuuri’s lips taste like heaven, soft and pliant against his. They break apart, after a moment, and then Yuuri snuggles into his chest, playing with Viktor’s left hand with a weary little sigh.

“My mother taught me everything she knew,” he says after a moment. “Cooking, cleaning, caring for people. It got her through the earlier years of her marriage to my father, when things were difficult for her because of my grandmother. But once my father got promoted, everything became a little better. Still doesn’t mean she doesn’t think about what could have been, though.”

“What could have been had she not met your father?” asks Viktor. “That’s obvious. I wouldn’t have met you.” Or fallen in love. Just going through life in pursuit of abstract concepts like ‘truth’ and ‘justice’ without knowing anything about ‘life’ or ‘love’. He entwines their fingers, kissing the ring finger on Yuuri’s right hand. The prince’s breath hitches in his throat.

“No,” he says. “What could have been had my father had a different job.”

Viktor smiles at that. “We could stock my fridge better,” he says. “You could make all the katsudon you’ll ever want to eat.”

“That’d be bad for your waistline,” Yuuri chides, patting Viktor’s stomach. Viktor laughs, kissing Yuuri’s nose. “Only on special occasions,” he concedes. “Like when you wrap a dance season.”

“Or when you win a skating competition,” agrees Viktor. “I won’t kiss you unless you win gold.”

“I’ll win you all the gold in the world,” replies Yuuri, his eyes sparkling. “And you’ll have to get the Benois de la Danse. My — my coach got that. When she was a ballerina.”

Viktor laughs. “I’ll be a better coach than her,” he promises. “The best coach in the world.”

“Yes,” agrees Yuuri. “What other occasions would we eat katsudon on?”

“Your birthday,” says Viktor immediately. “And mine, because I’m sure it’ll become my new favourite food. And Makkachin’s, too.”

Yuuri giggles at that. “And Vicchan’s,” he agrees, pressing kisses to Viktor’s knuckles. “My toy poodle. I’ll have to fly him over from Japan. I’ll have to fly all of my things over from Japan.”

“I’ll get you a pass to the skating complex,” agrees Viktor. “And you can teach me how to do jumps when the Fontanka freezes.”

“We can eat katsudon on our wedding day,” Yuuri blurts out suddenly, and then catches himself, blushing bright red in the dimly lit room. Makkachin pads over, nosing at Yuuri’s knees, so Yuuri bends over to scratch him behind the ears. Viktor’s heart feels so full that he thinks it might just burst.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “We’ll eat katsudon on our wedding day.”

Yuuri smiles at that, his eyes watery, before he takes the glass of water and finishes it.

“I should go,” he says after a moment. “I’ve… I’ve really overstayed my time.”

Viktor’s gut twists as his guilt comes rushing back at him. “Then there’s something I need to tell you,” he says, but Yuuri puts a finger to his lips, shaking his head.

“No,” he says, and something in his eyes suggests to Viktor that he might already know. “You don’t need to tell me anything.”

And with one final feather-light kiss to the corner of Viktor’s mouth, he gets up and moves away.

* * *

Yuuri gets dressed in the t-shirt and sweatpants he’d escaped in, pulling on his socks and shoes after with a rueful grin. They’re still a little soggy, but he probably won’t be in them for long.

The last things he dons are his jacket and scarf, wrapping them tightly around him. Viktor holds out the beanie as well, which Yuuri takes with a smile, rolling it onto his head.

“Sorry about your glasses,” Viktor says.

“I’ll get them replaced,” replies Yuuri, shrugging as he tugs his scarf over his lips and nose. Viktor gets the door for him, one hand hovering at the small of his back as they head down the dimly-lit stairwell and out onto the street.

Saint Petersburg is now settling down somewhat in the early hours of the morning, as the bridges lower and people begin returning home from where they’d been stranded all night. Nevertheless, Viktor manages to call them a cab. Yuuri rummages in his jacket pocket when the cabbie asks them where to, pulls out a card, and hands it over.

“When you get there, please drop me off and drive away immediately,” he says. The cabbie grunts in affirmation, and pulls away from the curb. Viktor says nothing, only looking at Yuuri with an expression that wouldn’t look out of place on a kicked puppy.

Yuuri swallows, and turns to look out the window instead.

The drive back to the Belmond is quiet, save for the cheery Russian music that the cabbie’s playing. Yuuri keeps thinking he can feel Viktor’s eyes on him, but whenever he sneaks a glance, the man is on his phone. His heart hammers loudly in his chest at that, like it knows that it’s going to be broken soon and wants out.

By the time they’re driving down Nevsky Avenue again, the first fingers of dawn are kissing the rooftops of the city. In the distance, the golden spike of the Admiralty gleams in the morning sun, and the horses on the Anichkov Bridge shine a burnished, proud ebony.

Slowly, inexorably, the gleaming golden façade of the Belmond Grand Hotel Europe comes into view. The cab turns down the street leading to it, but before it could pull up to the hotel’s porte-cochère, Yuuri says, “stop here.”

The cabbie slows down, runs up the total. Yuuri looks at Viktor, noticing the tears pooling in the corners of the man’s eyes.

“I’ll get the bill,” Viktor says quietly. Yuuri nods.

“I’ll pay you back,” he promises. Viktor chuckles, taking his hands and patting them, clearly not sure of what else to say.

“This is it, then,” he says.

“Mm,” agrees Yuuri, taking Viktor’s hands and pressing a kiss to backs of each. “Promise me something, Viktor.”

“Anything,” replies Viktor, his eyes beseeching. Yuuri looks down then, swallowing down the lump in his throat before saying:

“When I step out of this cab, I will head into the hotel, and the driver will take you home. Promise you won’t look back as you leave me, and I leave you.”

Viktor’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he nods. Yuuri blinks rapidly, feeling the sting of tears as he turns and looks out at the hotel looming over them. After a moment, he turns back to Viktor, opening his mouth with a half-baked parting shot that fizzles on his tongue before he can even say it.

“I don’t know how to say goodbye,” he confesses, and this time Viktor’s smile does reach his eyes.

“Then don’t,” he suggests, and leans in to kiss him again, soft and sweet and a little desperate, like he’s forgotten how to take in air except from Yuuri’s lungs. Yuuri feels his own chest constrict, the force of his heart breaking much too painful for him to bear. He buries his face in the crook of Viktor’s shoulder, feels the warmth of Viktor’s hands against his back, around his waist, and finally — yet too soon — pulls away.

Then with all the solemnity of a man going to the gallows, he opens the cab door and steps outside.

Once he closes the door, the cab speeds away, and though Yuuri is tempted to watch it leave, he doesn’t. Instead he takes a quiet breath, clenches his fists, and heads into the hotel.

The guards are waiting for him in the lobby, some of them nursing bruises from the fight on the boat. Yuuri averts his eyes apologetically as he strides up to the elevator, and a couple of the guards go up with him. He says nothing to them, though, as they flank him down the hall to the presidential suite, and one of them rings the buzzer for him without preamble.

The door to the suite opens, and Minako is upon him immediately. “Your Highness,” she states as she rises out of her bow. “We are gratified to have you returned safely to us. The past twenty-eight hours have been extremely concerning.”

Yuuri can sense the words she really wants to say hidden behind her deferential voice and her courteous words. _Where the hell have you been_? _We’ve been worried sick_.

He clenches his fist, flexes his fingers. Stepping inside, he quietly closes the door on the guards waiting outside, casting a glance towards the chamberlains waiting in the security room. Yuuko is among them; she sends him a wary, sympathetic smile.

Yuuri feels misery curl in his gut. “You have my apologies for my behaviour on the boat,” he says stiffly. “I take full responsibility for any damages that may have been incurred.”

“We accept your apology,” says Minako. “And we only hope that you will continue to remember your duty for the remainder of this trip.”

Yuuri bristles at that, anger drowning out the guilt surging through him. “I do not require a lecture on duty, Minako-san,” he growls.

Suddenly the room feels ten degrees colder.  With some effort, Yuuri turns and looks his Grand Master dead in the eyes, his expression as serious as he can make it.

“If it had not been for me remembering my duty,” he says, his voice quiet, “I would not have returned tonight. Or indeed ever again.”

Minako’s silence is a stunned one. Yuuri looks over at Yuuko, noticing how she only meets his eyes briefly before looking down at her hands again. With a sigh, he steps past Minako, heading past the music room and down the hallway to his bedroom.

Minako’s heels clack against the marble floor as she follows him, and after a moment she finds her voice again. “Your Highness, what are we going to say about the rest of those twenty-eight hours? Images of you have surfaced all over the Internet even outside of the cruise. We cannot keep our silence on this for long — if we cannot control this story, some unscrupulous journalist will seize it instead.”

Yuuri exhales. “A press conference,” he replies. “We’ll address yesterday with a press conference in the morning. See that the hotel can set up a room.” As he enters his bedroom, he toes off his shoes and looks around, feeling overwhelmed again amidst the gaudy opulence of the room. Immediately, he misses the relative simplicity of Viktor’s apartment. “Also reschedule my tour of the Toyota plant as well as my lunch with President Baranovskaya.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” says Minako, and for a moment, the silence between them stretches out.

Finally, Yuuri sighs again. “That’ll be all, Minako-san,” he says.

“Yes, Your Highness,” replies Minako, and then she asks, “Permission to speak informally?”

Yuuri shrugs out of his jacket, tugs off his scarf. “Sure,” he says.

“In my capacity as your Grand Master, I can’t approve of the stunts that you pulled yesterday,” replies Minako. Yuuri turns to her, opening his mouth, but she holds up a hand. “In my capacity as one of your oldest friends and mentors, however, I’ve seen this role weighing on you since you became Crown Prince after Mari eloped. In all honesty, Prince Katsuki, you deserved yesterday.”

Yuuri feels tears prickling at his eyes, and he quickly turns away to prevent her from seeing. “Thank you, Minako-san,” he says quietly. “I’d like to be alone now.”

“Alright,” she agrees. “Call us if you need anything.” And then she leaves, closing the door to the bedroom behind her.

Slowly, Yuuri sinks down onto the bed, taking his phone from its charger to check his messages. It’s now 5:15 in the morning, the sun is creeping over the horizon once more, and Phichit has sent him upwards of a hundred texts. With a sigh he unlocks his phone, but before he reads Phichit’s messages, he calls someone else instead.

Mari picks up on the second ring. “ _It was_ about time _, bro_ ,” she drawls. “ _Mom and Dad have been going mad trying to reach you. You know things are bad when they call me to try and call you_.”

Yuuri snorts. “You know they don’t actually hate you, right?” he asks.

“ _I barely get cards during the holidays_ ,” retorts Mari. “ _If_ they’re _not mad, then the Kunaicho are just really good at sustaining grudges on their behalf_.”

“They really are,” says Yuuri, chuckling. After a moment, however, he grows quieter. “I’m sorry, Mari.”

“ _What for_?” she asks.

“For not being there for you,” he replies. “For not understanding why you did what you did.”

There’s a pause, and then Mari asks, “ _Who was he_?”

“What?” asks Yuuri.

He can almost hear her rolling her eyes at him. “ _The man you were seen with in Saint Petersburg, Yuuri_ ,” she says. “ _It’s all over the internet. Takao and I have been following the entire thing. What’s his name_?”

“Oh,” says Yuuri, and suddenly his cheeks feel like they’re on fire even though Mari can’t see him. “Viktor,” he says after a moment. “His name is Viktor.”

“ _He’s pretty handsome, little bro_ ,” teases Mari. “ _Nice catch_.”

Yuuri chuckles. “Thanks,” he says, and then pauses. “And how is… Takao?”

Mari laughs, the sound a little staticky over their connection. “ _He’s really wonderful, Yuuri. He composed us a song for our fifth anniversary last month. I’ll send it to you, if you want_.”

“Yeah,” says Yuuri, smiling. “I’d love that.”

“ _And we’re also getting a dog_ ,” continues Mari. “ _I missed Vicchan a lot, so…_ ” she trails off with a small huff. “ _You’ll love her. Her name is Pippi; she’s a shiba inu and she’s got the sweetest eyes_.”

“That sounds amazing,” replies Yuuri. “It’s getting late, though. I should sleep.”

“ _Yeah, isn’t it like, almost six? What are you doing up at this hour_?”

Yuuri chuckles. “Saint Petersburg never goes to bed during the summer,” he replies. “But I need to, if I’m going to be functional at the press conference tomorrow. Good night, Mari.”

“ _Good night, little bro_.” And with that, she hangs up on him. Yuuri smiles as he flicks back to his messages, skimming through Phichit’s excitable texts, half of which seem to be Instagram posts about him.

He opens a couple of them, smiling at the pictures of him and Viktor taking photos at Palace Square, dancing in the Alexander Gardens, walking down Nevsky Avenue. There’s also pictures of him sticking his tongue out in front of the Church of the Saviour on Spilled Blood, looking up at the sharks at the Oceanarium, and driving the Vespa with Viktor clinging on for dear life.

 _yuuri ur blowin up twitter too_ , Phichit’s latest texts read. _#crownprincesdayoff is trending worldwide across diff platforms, everyone loves how cool you are_

Yuuri laughs, before opening up more pictures from the #CrownPrincesDayOff tag on Instagram. There’s pictures of the cruise, too, of them on the observation deck and being pulled out of the Neva. The last picture is a blurred photo of two figures on Potseluev Bridge, followed by speculation from fans on Twitter about what Yuuri and his mystery date were up to there.

It should be intrusive, it should be disturbing. But in this moment, all Yuuri can see is objective proof that he really had spent twenty-eight hours in the company of Viktor Nikiforov, and from a third person’s perspective, it’s astounding how oblivious he’d been to the longing stares that Viktor had been sending him all day:

 **Ellie Haagerup** @ royalwatch  
get you a man who looks at you like mystery man looks at crown prince yuuri #crownprincesdayoff

The picture is a moment caught at the Oceanarium during the time when he had thought Viktor was getting bored with him. However, the photo itself tells a different story, though — as Yuuri stares in fascination at the moon jellies floating in their tank, Viktor’s gaze is drawn entirely to Yuuri, longing etched in every line of his body.

He doesn’t need to hold it in anymore. He has nowhere else to hide. As the sun continues to rise over Saint Petersburg to herald the start of a new morning, Yuuri scrolls back down the Instagram feed, his body shaking with sobs as he thumbs through all of the photographic evidence of what could have been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Konoe Shidan = Imperial Guard. They're the branch of officers in Japan dedicated to protecting the Emperor of Japan and his family. Before 1947 they were a branch of the Japanese Army; now they're tied to the police instead. 
> 
> The bridges of Saint Petersburg only break after midnight during the summer in order to let bigger boats through (because during other parts of the year the Neva is too full of ice/frozen over for navigation). It's a really spectacular sight! The bridges also stay up for several hours, only coming back down around 4AM-6AM, so once you're on one side of the bridge once it goes up, you're trapped there for the night! That's apparently how a lot of romances happen in Saint Petersburg — you get stuck on Vasilevsky Island for several hours, so you might as well kill some time chatting with a cute stranger! 
> 
> The Potseluev Bridge is one of the most romantic bridges in Saint Petersburg! It's indeed a tradition to kiss your lover on it, because it was where couples get separated before the guy goes off to war or prison or something. The longer the kiss, the happier the couple. Also it has love locks and great views.
> 
> Figure skating & the Imperial Family: Apparently Princess Kako of Akishino did figure skating in primary school! She actually participated in the Spring Cup Figure Skating Competition held by the JSF and ranked top for the Shinjuku Division. 
> 
> Yuuri's lines about his mother focusing on cooking/cleaning/caring for people during the earlier years of her marriage is a reference to the treatment of the current Empress of Japan, Michiko, back when she was still Crown Princess by the then-Empress, her mother in law. Like what happened to Crown Princess Masako, Empress Michiko was bullied into a similar state of depression by Empress Kojun because she was a commoner and thus deemed (in the eyes of Empress Kojun) unsuitable for her son. But after Akihito became Emperor, things got better for Empress Michiko. People hope that after Emperor Akihito abdicates (in December 2018), Crown Princess Masako will be able to recover better with the status of Empress. 
> 
> Pippi was actually one of the names of the Crown Prince of Japan's dogs! The others were named... Mari and Yuri. I'm not kidding. Yuri's still around, but Mari died several years back. 
> 
> Bear with me till Wednesday!


	4. at the beginning with you

write me in a minor ( **ebbehmoth** ) wrote in **ohnotheydidnt** :

**_Mystery Man from #CrownPrincesDayOff Revealed to be Investigative Journalist!_ **

As everyone and their cat now know, Crown Prince Yuuri of Japan was spotted at several Saint Petersburg tourist attractions on Saturday in the company of a mysterious silver-haired man.

After some internet sleuthing, people on  Tumblr and  Twitter have managed to confirm the identity of tall, Russian, and Handsome as none other than investigative reporter Viktor Nikiforov, whose 2014 article on Western European government surveillance, 2015 article on American journalists being harassed by police for recording incidents of brutality, and 2016 article on Russian Bratva ties to the re-election campaign of Alabama senator Rick McCarthy have all been well-documented on **ontd_politics**. The 2016 article was also notable because of the  libel lawsuit filed against  _Stammi Vicino Quarterly_ because of a key source. As a result of the scandal, Nikiforov was forced to keep a low profile at SVQ in order to keep writing.

Well, it seems like Nikiforov has stumbled across the story of a lifetime: spending an entire day in the company of the Crown Prince of Japan.  Subscriptions of SVQ have gone through the roof already in anticipation of this juicy kiss-and-tell. And if the rumours and speculation are indeed true,  there may have even been actual kissing involved.

But if you’re just here for the cute photographs, wait no longer! Check out #CrownPrincesDayOff on Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram for everything, but some of our favourites are:

Viktor enjoys the view at the Hermitage  
Viktor and Yuuri dancing by the Admiralty Fountain  
Yuuri poses with the Church of Spilled Blood  
Yuuri and Viktor ride a Vespa (+BONUS:  Check out this Russian dashcam vid of the two of them narrowly avoiding a collision!)  
Who cares about seals when Yuuri is so much cuter?  
Viktor and Yuuri watching the bridges go up  
Viktor and Yuuri being pulled out of the Neva

and of course, the photo that sparked a thousand debates:  Kiss or hug on the bridge? 

~~It was totally a kiss, by the way.~~

tagged with: royalty / royal family, true love / love is dead, books / authors, asian celebrities, russian celebrities

—————

**1290 comments**

**stabuckwhee**  
Anyone who says they just hugged has no eyes. They were on a bridge in SpB that literally translates to “Kissing Bridge” in English!

**Expand 201 more comments**

**prince_eggyolk**  
I’m not the only one who is a little creeped out by the hype surrounding #CrownPrincesDayOut right? People are like literally shipping real-life people here…

 **penguinsmut**  
^ lol whatever it’s not like they’re going to get together ;)

 **aeriy**  
Anyone else think this would make a great movie?

 **pineyfresh**  
are people honestly shipping the two of them together? i mean besides it being weird that people will ship real life people together, wouldn’t it be unhealthy for yuuri to be with someone who’s just using him for a scoop? omg i feel so bad for him

**Expand 59 more comments**

**shiftyshar**  
pero they’re so cute wtf OTL

* * *

The apartment is too empty without Yuuri in it.

The moment he closes the door, Makkachin comes bounding over, stopping short when he notices that Viktor has returned alone. The poodle gives a piteous whine, and Viktor sinks to his knees, burying his face in his dog’s soft fur.

He had kept his promise and not turned to watch Yuuri when the cabbie dropped him off. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t watch the man’s reflection receding in the rear-view mirror. Yuuri’s figure in the early dawn was small, almost overwhelmed by the vast and ancient buildings all around him, and Viktor had watched him slowly walk towards the hotel until the cab turned the corner and whisked him out of sight.

He goes through the motions of undressing, of brushing his teeth, but for a long while after, all he can do is lie in bed and stare up at the ceiling, remembering the ardour of Yuuri’s kisses along his body, and the way he had looked as he rode Viktor on this very bed. The morning is muted from behind the blackout curtains, and so Viktor curls up in his cold, empty bed, inhales the scent of Yuuri still lingering on the pillows, and _pretends_.

At some point, he could have sworn he fell asleep, but it almost feels like he had just put his head down and blinked when the buzzing of his doorbell wakes him up again, and his editor Yakov Feltsman is barging over his threshold without preamble.

“Where is it?” asks Yakov, looking around him wildly.

“What?” asks Viktor, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“The story,” replies Yakov. “SVQ’s seen a spike in subscriptions because of your little day out with the prince. Where’s the story you promised me of it? People are waiting.”

Viktor’s stomach twists. “There’s no story,” he says.

Yakov scoffs. “Of course there’s a story, you idiot! I saw the photographs of you two together!” And with that he strides through the flat, heading straight to the den as if he’d uncover the story right there on Viktor’s computer.

Viktor rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I know there’s a bunch of photos. But I’ve got no story.”

Yakov peeks back out of the den, his bushy brows furrowing. “You’re kidding me, Vitya,” he says. “You’re the one who messaged me about it.”

“I know,” replies Viktor, hanging his head. “I was too proud and eager, and now I need to eat my words. That’s the story I’ve got for you, Yakov. I’m sorry.”

Yakov opens his mouth to protest further, but something of Viktor’s misery must be evident on his face, because he coughs instead, and steps awkwardly out of the den.

“Well, then, since you’re clearly an expert on the Imperial Family,” he says, “maybe you can salvage whatever story you’re not willing to tell me with this assignment. The Crown Prince is holding a press conference today.”

Viktor blinks. “…So?” he asks.

“It’s meant to address what happened yesterday,” replies Yakov. “You’re going to attend it.”

Viktor quirks a quizzical eyebrow. “Wouldn’t that be a conflict of interest, sir?”

Yakov snorts. “No, it won’t. Because you’re clearly hurting and you want closure.”

Viktor blinks at him again, feeling like a deer caught in the headlights, or a misbehaving kid with his hand in the cookie jar. But all his editor does is chuckle, and slap his back in a gruff show of compassion.

“Chin up, Vitya,” he says. “It’s just a crush. You’ll get over it. All you need is distance and time.”

Viktor sighs. “I hope you’re right,” he replies, a tiny smile tugging at his lips.

Yakov looks up to the ceiling. “Of course I am,” he says. “Besides, maybe it’s better you don’t have a story. Death threats from that American politician was bad enough — we don’t need the Imperial Household Agency coming after you, too. You’ve made enough enemies for one lifetime, Vitya.”

That makes Viktor laugh. “Probably,” he agrees.

Yakov nods, then, and turns back towards the door. Makkachin seizes the chance to come and demand pets, which the old editor readily grants. Viktor smiles, as Yakov turns back to face him at the threshold.

“The press conference is at the Belmond in an hour. Take the rest of the day off.”

“Thank you,” replies Viktor.

“Cheer up a little, too. You’re insufferable when you’re miserable.” And then Yakov is gone, the apartment door closing behind him. Viktor crosses over to the couch, falling down on it bonelessly as Makkachin comes up and curls in his lap.

“Makka, what am I going to do?” asks Viktor, running his hands through his dog’s caramel curls. Makkachin only looks up at him with pitying eyes, and Viktor sighs, looking down at his phone.

There’s a message from Christophe. _going to the press conference?_

Viktor sighs. _yeah_ , he replies. _what are you going to do with the photos?_

Christophe sends him a shrug emoji. Viktor sighs.

_you can do what you like with yours, but I don’t think it’d be fair if we sold them._

He can almost see Christophe rolling his eyes at that. _the story’s already leaked that you spent the day with him. there’s photos of you and him everywhere. what difference does it make?_

What difference? Viktor pulls up the (admittedly fewer) photos he took of Yuuri. Most of them are selfies, though there’s a couple that he snuck of Yuuri in the aquarium, lit by the blueish lights coming from the tanks. There’s nothing of them after the cruise, though, which are the moments he would’ve liked to keep the most.

But those moments wouldn’t have withstood being photographed, anyway. Maybe it’s better they were preserved in just his memory. Not for the first time during these past two days, Viktor feels the sting of tears in his eyes.

 _ours confirm everything_ , he replies. _haven’t we betrayed his trust enough?_

Christophe doesn’t respond for a while. But just as Viktor gets up to return to his room and get dressed, his phone pings again. _i’ll see you at the press conference_ , it says.

Viktor smiles. Having Christophe there makes the prospect of seeing Yuuri again a lot less painful, because at least he won’t have to face him alone. _thanks_ , he responds.

 _un de perdu, dix de retrouvés_ , replies Christophe, and Viktor chuckles. There may be seven billion other fish in the sea, but a part of Viktor stubbornly hopes he’ll never give up on this one that got away.

Returning to the Belmond Grand Hotel Europe feels like rubbing lemon juice in a still-fresh wound, but Viktor swallows down the lump his throat as he pays the cabbie and strides into the hotel, seeking out the press conference with a flash of his badge. The clerk behind the front desk blinks at him before offering directions with a stunned expression, and Viktor thanks her quickly before striding off down towards the conference centre. There are already other members of the international press gathered in the foyer and in the small conference room, and their conversations grow hushed as Viktor walks past.

Viktor folds his hands behind his back as he strides down the aisle in search of a seat, trying to avert his gaze from the numerous news cameras being set up at the back. If he’s been linked to Yuuri, it’ll only be a matter of time before his peers start asking him questions, too. Yet he has no idea what he’d say.

“Well, look who’s royally fucked up this time.” Viktor turns to see Yuri Plisetsky entering the hall with Christophe quick on his heels. “Don’t say I didn’t tell you so.”

The other journalists turn to mutter quietly amongst themselves. Viktor feels an uneasy curling in his gut as Yuri draws up next to him. “What are you doing here?” he asks the teenager, who rolls his eyes.

“Yakov said I should shadow you for this press conference,” he replies. “Make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

“You’re one to talk about doing stupid things,” says Viktor, looking pointedly at the intern’s leopard-print tie and belt.

“Excuse me, this is awesome fashion,” declares Yuri. “And I’m not the one who jumped off a boat to chase some dick.”

Viktor scowls. “Time and place, Yura,” he warns, jerking his head towards the the rest of the press. Yuri rolls his eyes, but subsides all the same.

They take their seats with the rest of the press, but almost as soon as they do there’s a commotion of photographers at the opening. Viktor can see Christophe among them, flash bulbs flickering as a woman with long brown hair clipped back and a smart black pantsuit comes walking up to the tables set at the front of the room. She steps up to the lectern at the centre, taps the microphone, and then says in slightly accented English:

“Please rise for His Imperial Highness Yuuri, Crown Prince of Japan.”

Viktor and Yuri rise to their feet along the rest of the reporters, Yuri muttering something about being too short for this. Viktor, however, feels his heart leap into his throat as he hears the cameras clicking madly, following the ascent of the Crown Prince up the aisle to the front of the room. The woman steps down to one of the side tables, bowing her head slightly. Yuuri smiles, brief and tight, before bowing to the press.

The press bows back, and Viktor with them, his heartbeat rabbit-fast against his throat as the Crown Prince gestures for them to sit and takes the lectern, clearing his throat slightly.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I am pleased to be here with all of you today,” he says quietly. Viktor takes in the way his hair has been combed and slicked back, the way his gaze remains steady as he looks out at the sea of reporters crowded into the room. The flashes of cameras on his face don’t seem to faze him as he continues, “Before I open the floor to questions, I would like to make a brief statement regarding my activities yesterday.”

The entire room seems to be hushed in anticipation. Viktor senses that the news cameras are firmly trained on Yuuri’s face, trying to catch any minutiae of his expressions. He swallows, focusing on the hotel’s logo on the lectern instead of the man behind it.

Yuuri exhales, as if trying to remember his words. And then he says, “Yesterday had been a very spontaneous part of my goodwill trip through Saint Petersburg. It is my firm belief that a member of the Imperial Family should have the opportunity to spend time with the people not as their monarch, but as a peer and a friend. We cannot lead the people if we cannot understand them. I had wished to experience the White Night celebrations in this city as no more than a fellow commoner, and I was fortunately able to carry out my wish.”

He pauses, scanning the crowd. Their gazes meet, and Yuuri’s eyes widen for a brief moment before he looks away, the mask slipping back into place. Viktor feels his heart clench, but he continues to watch the graceful bob of the prince’s throat before he speaks up again.

“However, there were a couple incidents yesterday that were reckless of me, not to mention destructive to the beautiful city that has welcomed me with open arms.” Yuuri’s eyes briefly flicker back to his, a small smile twitching at his lips. “For these incidents, the city of Saint Petersburg has my deepest apologies.”

Viktor exhales, as Yuuri pauses, eyes flickering down to the lectern briefly before looking back out at the press once more.

“I am now open to questions from the press,” he says, and all hell breaks loose. A torrent of voices fill the room, silenced only by the woman’s pointed cough. Yuuri, on the other hand, seems unaffected; with a small smile, he picks one of the hands that go up in the absence of voices.

“Josef Karpisek, _Neue Zürcher Zeitung_ ,” says the man as he stands up with his recorder at the ready. “If this excursion was intentional on your part, Your Highness, then why has the Imperial Household Agency maintained until now that you were indisposed due to illness?”

Yuuri gapes for a moment, but then quickly recovers. “I, uh, told them to tell the press I was sick,” he says. “If I were to announce that I was exploring the city, then people would still treat me differently, and I did not want that.”

Mr Karpisek nods. Yuuri smiles, and then picks someone else.

“Min-so Park, CNN,” says the second reporter, holding out her microphone. “Do you have any expectations as to what your father the Emperor may think of your day out?”

Yuuri smiles. “My father has frequently stressed the importance of connecting with the people,” he replies, his gaze flickering back to Viktor. “Friendship between nations begins at the basic level of connections between individuals.”

Viktor’s heart is going to give out any minute, and it’s entirely Yuuri’s fault. He can’t help but smile at that, and Yuuri offers his own brief one before picking someone else.

“Hisashi Morooka, ANN. Speaking of connections between individuals, Your Highness, can you give us any details as to the identity of the man you were seen with?”

Yuuri bites his lip briefly, looking down at his hands as if contemplating what to do. Viktor watches with baited breath. Yuuri could say that he was here, right now —

“No,” says Yuuri. “He is a private citizen, and as such, I will not divulge his personal information.”

Viktor clears his throat, raises his hand. Yuuri nods at him, and shakily Viktor rises to his feet. There’s a collective murmur from the rest of the press, and Viktor feels the flash of cameras on him as well as the prince. With a voice wavering with trepidation, he says, “Viktor Nikiforov, _Stammi Vicino Quarterly_.”

“Yes, Mr Nikiforov,” says Yuuri, his eyes welling with the emotions that the rest of his face refuses to show. Viktor swallows down his nervousness, takes a deep breath, and continues:

“What is your outlook, Your Highness, on the relations between Japan and Russia?”

Yuuri falters briefly, before understanding dawns on his face. “I cannot comment on the current political standings, Mr Nikiforov,” he replies, his voice and expression guarded, “But from a personal standpoint, I believe that acting in good faith will serve to strengthen relations between our countries.”

Relief surges through him at that. Yuuri’s smile is hopeful as he waits, ostensibly for a follow-up question. But instead, Viktor says, “Then from _my_ personal experience, I believe Your Highness’s faith will not be unjustified.”

There’s a pause, as Yuuri closes his eyes and smiles so brightly that the cameras go wild. “I am gratified to hear that,” he says, and doesn’t stop smiling through the rest of the conference.

Afterwards, the woman accompanying Yuuri announces that he will be meeting members of the press in the foyer, and the two of them depart to the flash of cameras. As they join the people leaving the room, Yuri turns to Viktor with a disbelieving expression on his face.

“Relations between Japan and Russia? _Are you fucking kidding me_?” he demands. “That was the most obvious… I don’t even know what that is.”

Viktor chuckles. “It was one of the original questions I had for the press conference he was supposed to hold yesterday,” he replies.

Yuri rolls his eyes. “Right, and ‘from my personal experience’,” he scoffs, holding up air quotes as he mimics Viktor’s phrasing. “You’re so transparent, old man. And honestly? So was he. You’re a match made in heaven.”

They get in line behind several other journalists. Christophe comes to join him, checking his phone as he does. “Mila and Sara are so mad that they couldn’t get in for _The Daily Dot_ ,” he says. “They wanted to ask Yuuri about his thoughts regarding being the first Imperial Family member to trend worldwide on Twitter.”

Viktor laughs at that. “Should’ve asked that for you,” he jokes, snapping his fingers.

Slowly but steadily, the line moves along and the Crown Prince comes into view. Soon it’s the journalists five paces away, and then two, and then Yuuri is finishing shaking hands with Nathalie Leroy of CBC News, and Viktor is stepping up in her stead.

“I’m so happy to meet you,” says Yuuri as he clasps Viktor’s hand, a soft smile playing at his lips. Viktor shakes, once, twice, noticing how small and warm Yuuri’s hands are.

“I’m so happy, too,” he replies. There’s still so much he wants to say, so much he wants to apologise for or explain. But Yuuri’s gaze has shifted to Christophe holding up his phone with a mock-horrified expression, and Viktor laughs as he releases the prince’s hand and steps aside.

Yuri is surly but polite as he shakes Yuuri’s hand. “You’re lucky Viktor isn’t going to kiss and tell,” he says before either Viktor or Christophe can stop him, but Yuuri laughs it off, inclining his head at the teenager.

“I’m lucky to have have made his acquaintance,” he replies cheerily.

“Acquaintance?” wonders Yuri. “Is that what the old people call it?” And then he steps back. Yuuri sends Viktor a long-suffering look, and Viktor hides a smile behind his hand.

Christophe snaps a selfie with the prince shortly after shaking his hand. Yuuri holds up a victory sign in it. While they’re taking the photo, Viktor notices Christophe slipping a flash drive into Yuuri’s trouser pocket.

And then he’s stepping away, and they’re all filing out of the conference foyer. Every atom of Viktor is screaming for him to stay, though every step he takes takes him farther and farther away from the prince.

He only looks back once, when he’s about to step back into the lobby. Yuuri is surrounded by his guards, the woman — his Grand Master, probably — flitting at his elbows. The flash of cameras fill the room still, and Yuuri is smiling his press smile, every line of his body rigid with duty and responsibility.

“Viktor!” Yuri calls from halfway across the lobby. Yuuri seems to have heard that, because he turns to look at Viktor, his eyes brimming with something Viktor is terrified to name. _Stay close to me_ , they seem to say. _I’m nothing without you_.

And with the shards of his broken heart digging into his chest, Viktor Nikiforov turns his back on the prince he loves, and slowly walks away.

* * *

NATIONAL /  MEDIA |  BIG IN JAPAN 

**_Crown Prince Explains Unexpected Saint Petersburg Holiday_ **

BY  TAKESHI HONDA 

18 JUNE 2017 — In a press conference held at the Dostoevsky Room of the Belmond Grand Hotel Europe in Saint Petersburg, Russia, Crown Prince Yuuri explained his mysterious appearances on social media the day before. According to him and the Imperial Household Agency, the #CrownPrincesDayOff had actually been part of a stunt designed to enable the Crown Prince to experience Saint Petersburg as a commoner.

“If I were to announce that I was exploring the city, then people would still treat me differently, and I did not want that,” the Crown Prince said in response to questions from reporters. “My father has frequently stressed the importance of connecting with the people. We cannot lead the people if we cannot understand them.”

Indeed, in the numerous pictures posted across social media platforms such as Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram, the Crown Prince was spotted enjoying the many sightseeing locations in the city without the pressure of a public appearance. Heavier speculation remains, however, on the identity of the person who had accompanied him to these locations.

When asked about his companion at the press conference, the Crown Prince responded that he cannot “divulge his personal information” because the man is a “private citizen”. However, he also, in an uncharacteristic display of emotion, stressed the importance of “basic connections between individuals” operating “in good faith” to secure the friendship between nations.

Journalists on Twitter worldwide have commented upon these remarks, interpreting them as a coded message to the mystery man, presumably begging him not to tell the press about their day together.

“I don’t want to accuse anyone of anything, especially not the Crown Prince of Japan, but it’s interesting that he would emphasise the importance of good faith after several well-constructed excuses surrounding his wild behaviour during his holiday,” says a commentator for the BBC in a Twitter thread. “Especially given that the journalist he was conversing with looked a lot like the man in the photos.”

Within 24 hours of the first photo in the #CrownPrincesDayOff tag, Twitter and Tumblr sleuths concluded that the mystery man was none other than investigative journalist Viktor Nikiforov, who was also in attendance at the press conference. Nikiforov, however, has declined to comment on the nature of the messages he exchanged with the Crown Prince, or on whether or not he would be writing about his experiences.

Sources close to Nikiforov say he will not. “It was a personal day for him as well,” says his editor, Yakov Feltsman of _Stammi Vicino Quarterly_. “No one can fault him for wanting to keep things private.”

The Imperial Household Agency has also declined to comment on the matter.

* * *

Yuuri has lunch with President Lilia Baranovskaya not even an hour after he leaves the press conference. It’s being hosted in the dining room of his suite, which means the entire hallway leading up to his open front door is bustling with servers and chefs from the hotel kitchen.

President Baranovskaya strides in at 1 PM on the dot, her makeup flawless and her hair pulled into a severe bun at the back of her head. “Your Highness,” she says bluntly, inclining her head.

Yuuri bows to her, kissing her hand briefly. “Madame President,” he replies, and then gestures to the dining room. “Shall we?”

She steps up to her spot at the end of the table, and two chamberlains pull out their seats for them. A server then comes in to fill their water glasses before offering each of them a moist towelette. Yuuri watches the President run her long red fingernails across her towelette, noticing how her rings flash in the light of the chandelier.

“Can I offer you something to drink?” he asks.

“No, I don’t drink at work,” she says.

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “You consider this work?” he asks.

“And you don’t?” she retorts, the slightest twitch of her carefully-lined lips the only indicator that she’s amused by his comment. “My condolences on your indisposition yesterday, Your Highness.”

Yuuri nods. “And my apologies for rescheduling our lunch on such short notice.”

She waves a hand. “I was in town,” she says dismissively. The servers bring them the appetiser: blini with Astrakhan Oscietra caviar and sour cream. Another follows with a bottle of Dom Pérignon, and pours Yuuri a small flute.

“Are you sure you don’t want some champagne, Madame President?”

She looks tempted. “One glass,” she concedes, and the server fills her flute.

“Kampai,” says Yuuri solemnly, raising his glass. She meets his toast, and Yuuri tries not to think of the last time he made a toast as he washes down the caviar with champagne.

The rest of the lunch passes smoothly. Turns out, President Baranovskaya is a devoted fan of the Mariinsky, and had come down to see some of the White Nights festival performances. They compare notes on the production of Édouard Deldevez’s _Paquita_ that they had watched on Yuuri’s first night in the city, though Yuuri has to admit his memory of the show is fuzzy at best.

The conversation then switches to their respective skating federations and the upcoming season, with Yuuri placing his faith in the seventeen-year-old ace Kenjirou Minami much to President Baranovskaya’s amusement. Over dessert, they briefly discuss Japan’s preparations for the 2020 Olympics, before President Baranovskaya sets down her spoon next to her bowl of bombe glacée, and fixes him with a curious stare.

“Your Highness, I heard that you’ve recently met Viktor Nikiforov?” she asks.

Yuuri nods. “He attended the press conference I hosted today,” he replies.

She hums. “I am hearing that the two of you met even before that,” she says.

Yuuri quirks an eyebrow. “You know him?” he asks.

“Of course I know him. Who doesn’t know Russia’s snoopiest reporter? Surely you’ve heard about the exposés he wrote on the McCarthy re-election campaign.”

Yuuri frowns. He had, in fact, heard about that before. “He wrote _that_ article?” he asks, feeling his stomach flutter with something akin to pride. It had been a very cutting article, pointed in its aim and confident in the accusations it made. It was the exact opposite of the sort of addresses he had been trained to give. Where he tries to walk the middle way to offend the least amount of people possible, Viktor charges in without regards for the person he’s accusing of corruption.

The subsequent libel suit had not come as a surprise, of course. Yuuri remembers that, too.

“He also wrote about government surveillance in Western Europe and police brutality in the United States. I can’t imagine he has a lot of friends.”

“He does seem to have ruffled many feathers,” agrees Yuuri, smiling in spite of himself.

President Baranovskaya sighs. “I did not appreciate him accusing my government of complacency and corruption with regards to the continuing operations of the Bratva, but… the evidence gathered in the _official_ investigation was very compelling in establishing the link between the gang in question and the senator’s re-election campaign.”

“Then what caused the scandal?” wonders Yuuri. “I remember hearing there was a scandal.”

“His source was unreliable,” says President Baranovskaya. “She was discovered to have a history of compulsive lying, and though some of the details she gave him in his article did in fact lead to solid evidence, a great deal of the rest was fabricated. He almost lost his job as a result.”

Yuuri hums as he also sets down his spoon. “You seem to know the details of the scandal quite well.”

A shadow passes over President Baranovskaya’s face. In that moment, she looks much older, like a bent and grey mother waiting for her wayward son. “We all have moments of weakness,” she replies stiffly, and Yuuri wisely decides not to pry further.

After the lunch, he has a brief moment to himself before he’s scheduled to head out to the Toyota plant. He reaches into his pocket for his phone, and frowns when his hand brushes across something smaller instead.

He takes the flash drive out, frowning, and goes to fetch his laptop. When he pulls up the contents on it, though, his heart begins to race and his eyes begin to water.

These must be Christophe’s photos of him. They’re alarmingly high-quality for a camera phone, preserving in high definition the memories of Yuuri’s day in Saint Petersburg. The file names are interesting as well — there’s ‘Making a Sealy Friend’ at the Oceanarium, ‘The Once and Future Emperor’ in front of the portrait of Tsar Nicholas II, and ‘Don’t Cry Over Spilled Blood’ in front of the church.

But the one that stands out the most to him is the shot of him and Viktor out on the railing of the observation deck of the river cruise, Yuuri with his arms held out and Viktor laughing at his side, their hair blowing in the wind and their faces aglow from the early twilight.

He finds himself reaching out to trace the picture-Viktor’s jaw, feeling the now-familiar lump in his throat as he sees the softness in Viktor’s eyes and the heart shape of his mouth. This is how he wants to remember him, not teary-eyed in the lobby of the hotel moments before he turns and walks away. It’ll soon be all he has left, since now that he knows who Viktor really is, the chances of the Kunaicho approving a continued relationship between them are slim to none.

Nevertheless, despite the fact that his time with Viktor had only spanned a day, it had been one of the happiest days of his life. One whose memories he will treasure for the rest of his days.

And so with a smile, Yuuri closes his laptop and gets ready for the next event of his goodwill tour.

* * *

**To:** Mari  
Sis how do I stop thinking about him

 **From:** Mari  
Are you talking about Viktor? Did you find out who he is?

 **To:** Mari  
He’s an investigative reporter

 **From:** Mari  
So twitter was right! Wow

 **To:** Mari  
Wait how how long did twitter know?

 **From:** Mari  
There were guesses  
Also didn’t you look him up when he first told you his name?

 **To:** Mari  
I didn’t have my phone and I thought it’d be rude to look him up on his  
He said he was a dancer at the mariinsky and I bought it

 **From:** Mari  
If you knew who he really was at the start would you have stayed?

 **To:** Mari  
Idk… maybe?  
He was so nice  
And he’s not publishing anything about us, anyway

 **From:** Mari  
Do you want to see him again? ;)

 **To:** Mari  
Yeah

 **To:** Mari  
But you know the ~kunaicho~ wouldn’t approve щ(ಠ_ಠщ)

 **To:** Mari  
Because he’s an investigative journalist who was involved in a scandal and all of that

 **From:** Mari  
Lol remember when auntie Akiko told us about how grandpa almost didn’t approve of mom marrying dad because one of the oku told him about her great-uncle’s political leanings

 **To:** Mari  
Yeah that was stupid

 **From:** Mari  
And ofc I couldn’t get approval to marry Takao because of his family history of mental illness and drug addiction

 **To:** Mari  
I admit I was concerned about the drugs too

 **From:** Mari  
He’s not his family though. And Viktor’s scandal was just him using an unreliable source more than he really should. I mean there are people out there who have done worse things

 **From:** Mari  
I married Takao because he made me happy and I love him, no matter what everyone else said. I didn’t care if it it meant that under the law I’d have to give up my title and my claim to the throne

 **To:** Mari  
That law is stupid anyway

 **From:** Mari  
Don’t change it on my behalf lil bro, I love being a commoner. I can actually vote and talk about politics now!

 **To:** Mari  
What’s the point though, if I marry Viktor I wouldn’t be a commoner, I’d end up making him join the family

 **From:** Mari  
Dude that would be the funniest thing  
The kunaicho won’t know what hit them  
Imagine the look on grand steward Hiramatsu’s face if you did that

 **To:** Mari  
Omg ｡ﾟ(TヮT)ﾟ｡

 **From:** Mari  
Seriously bro now you gotta do it  
Get his number, stay in touch, whatever  
I need this man as my brother in law just for the perfect middle finger it’d be to Hiramatsu

 **To:** Mari  
That’s assuming we even get that far

 **From:** Mari  
Come on did you even see the photos on insta?  
Give it a try  
Take a leap of faith  
You have nothing to lose

* * *

The months pass. The White Nights come and go, and slowly the days get shorter and the nights longer. In October, Saint Petersburg starts getting snow.

In November, the snow has already started piling. Though the streets and roads are usually clear, the sidewalks are starting to be covered in drifts. Makkachin loves running into them, though, his nose twitching at the coldness as he burrows deep in search of the strange dead scents of the oncoming winter.

Viktor still walks Makkachin most mornings and nights, before spending his days writing for SVQ. He’s slowly making his way back up to bigger stories; the other day he interviewed the new prima ballerina for the Mariinsky over coffee and pastries. She tried to kiss him when he walked her to the metro stop, but he turned at the last minute and her lips caught his cheek instead.

He writes something sweet about her performance and their little interview, and ignores the rest of her calls.

Sometimes the press camps out at his apartment, usually in response to something happening far away in Japan. With the revelation that he was the Crown Prince’s mystery man comes a certain degree of notoriety. His social media accounts all get thousands of new followers, including one phichit+chu. The first time he saw that notification, Viktor had had to pinch himself to make sure that was the right username he was seeing — there’s no way _the_ heir to the Chulanont Media Group was following him on Twitter and Instagram.

Phichit Chulanont’s accounts, though, quickly turn out to be the best way to get any personal news on Crown Prince Yuuri, since the Imperial Household Agency keeps a tight rein over all other forms of media surrounding him. While at all of his press conferences Yuuri looks reserved, polite, and quiet, with his best friend Phichit he is making silly faces and using the Snapchat dog filter, a pair of dark sunglasses firmly lodged over his eyes to provide reasonable doubt as to his identity. Viktor watches them go out on the town, watches Yuuri skating at what looks like a private rink, watches them race Phichit’s pet hamsters and hug each other, and wishes with every beat of his heart that he could be there, too.

He’s just finished taking Makkachin out for the night when his phone pings with a text from Yuuri. Through some finagling with Phichit as intermediary, he’d finally gotten the prince’s number. They had kept up a text conversation since then, though sometimes their schedules get so busy that all they can say are good mornings and good nights. Still, each text from Yuuri makes Viktor’s heart flutter a little faster.

 _Have you gotten it yet?_ Yuuri’s message reads.

 _Gotten what_? asks Viktor as he stops down the hall of his apartment to check his mailbox. The response is almost immediate.

 _The envelope_.

Viktor has never unlocked his mailbox faster. Sure enough, amidst his bills and grocery store ads there is a heavy vellum envelope printed with his name in fancy script. He snaps a picture of it, sending it to Yuuri. _This one?_

 _Yes_ , replies Yuuri, followed by a set of eye emojis. Viktor chuckles, closing his mailbox and coaxing Makkachin up the stairs.

He gets another message at the top. _Have you opened it yet?_ asks Yuuri.

Viktor sends him a laughing emoji. _Patience, Yuuri_ , he says, before unlocking his door and letting Makkachin in. He fills the dog’s food and water bowls, before finally settling down on his couch and breaking the chrysanthemum-shaped seal at the back.

The first thing he sees is a card. “You are cordially invited to celebrate the twenty-fourth birthday of His Imperial Highness Yuuri, Crown Prince of Japan, on the twenty-ninth of November,” Viktor murmurs, before digging into the envelope again and pulling out a set of round-trip airline tickets from Saint Petersburg to Tokyo. Chuckling, Viktor takes a picture of the tickets and sends it to Yuuri, accompanied with the comment: _you really want me to come to your birthday party, huh_.

 _I could think of nothing I’d like better_ , replies Yuuri.

 _What about katsudon_? asks Viktor.

_My mother will be making that for my birthday dinner, so that’s already a given._

Viktor laughs at that. _Eating katsudon made by the Empress of Japan? Sold_.

His phone rings with a call from Yuuri then, and he immediately picks up. “Isn’t it late in Tokyo right now?” he asks by way of greeting.

“ _I couldn’t sleep_ ,” replies Yuuri, his voice soft. “ _I wanted to hear your voice_.”

Viktor hums, feeling his heartbeat quicken at the the prince’s admission. “Maybe I should sing you to sleep, then,” he suggests.

“ _That’d be nice_ ,” replies Yuuri. “ _Do you know any good lullabies_?”

“On second thought, maybe not. Russian lullabies are kinda morbid.”

“ _Japanese ones are okay, I guess_ ,” says Yuuri, humming a couple bars of one of them. “ _So you’ll be coming for my birthday_?” he adds after a moment.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” replies Viktor, and he’s rewarded with a half-breathless chuckle. There’s the sound of shifting, as if Yuuri has rolled over in bed, and quickly his brain spirals down less-decent paths before he can stop it.

“ _Do you miss me_?” Yuuri asks after a moment.

“All the time,” admits Viktor, putting the phone on speaker so that he can start changing. “Is it snowing where you are?”

“ _It rarely snows in Tokyo_ ,” replies Yuuri. “ _But there’s other parts of the country that get a lot of snow. But I bet it’s prettier in Saint Petersburg_.”

“Not between January and March,” replies Viktor with a chuckle. “Then it’s just one long slog through the cold, dark wasteland of Russian winter, hoping you’ll survive until spring.”

Yuuri laughs at that. “ _Maybe I should go over there and keep you warm_ ,” he teases.

“I might cut down on my heating bill if you do,” replies Viktor cheekily. Yuuri never sends pictures or do FaceTime calls for obvious security reasons, which is a shame because he’d have liked to see that delectable pink blush spread over his cheeks.

Admittedly, it’s a lot easier for him to act flirty without seeing Yuuri’s face — he’s sure if he did, he’d probably get all tongue-tied over what should be reasonably smooth pick-up lines.

He pulls on a shirt alongside his usual sweatpants, brushing his teeth quickly before returning to bed, taking the phone with him. “You still there, Yuuri?” he asks.

“ _Yeah_ ,” says the Crown Prince, though his voice is a little lower, a little softer. “ _Just thinking about you, as always_.”

“Am I always in your thoughts? Even when you should be thinking about other things?” teases Viktor.

“Especially _when I should be thinking about other things_ ,” replies Yuuri. “ _You know, the other day I was in the middle of a meeting about ocean pollution and I started thinking about the colour of your eyes. No one is going to take me seriously as Emperor at this rate_.”

Viktor laughs at that. “I’d take you very seriously,” he says.

“ _I’d like it better if you took me in other ways_ ,” retorts Yuuri, and then he gives small gasp. “ _That was too forward, I’m sorry_ —”

Viktor’s laughter only grows, though. “Are you always this punny?” he asks.

“ _What can I say?_ ” wonders Yuuri, recovering with a teasing lilt in his voice. “ _I like a man with a silver tongue_.”

“Any particular uses for this silver tongue that you’re thinking about?” wonders Viktor, and he’s promptly rewarded with a moan that has him immediately hardening in his pants.

Yuuri’s voice is a little hoarse when he responds. “ _So many things, god,_ ” he gasps. His breathing is heavy over the line, as if he has already been pleasuring himself to the sound of Viktor’s voice. The thought of the prince doing that, alone in his palace bedroom, sends a shiver down Viktor’s spine. “ _I’ve had so many dreams of your hands and your kisses, and when I wake up I wish I was dreaming again_.”

Viktor moans at that, his hands inching down to the waistband of his sweats. “Yuuri, please —”

“ _I just need you closer,_ Viktor _,_ ” begs Yuuri. “ _I need you in my arms again, your mouth on me, kissing me everywhere. I need you in me, taking me apart. I… I also want to be in you_.”

“Yes, oh god, yes,” groans Viktor, pulling down his pants and taking himself in hand. He’s already leaking, already needy for Yuuri’s touch. He begins to pump his hand, thumb circling the tip as he imagines Yuuri spread out in his own bed miles away in the wee hours of the morning, sleepless and wanting as he thrusts into his fist. “You’d fuck me so good, Yuuri, oh god.”

“ _Say my name again_ ,” whispers Yuuri.

“ _Yuuri_ ,” replies Viktor, drawing out the ‘u’s. “Do you like it when I say your name?”

“ _I love it_.” A small gasp. “ _I’m so close, Viktor. You’re so tight around me, I can’t last much longer_ —”

“Then come for me,” says Viktor, feeling the edge creeping up on him as well, as his own hands pick up the pace. “Fill me up.”

There’s a muffled cry, a couple harsh pants, and then Yuuri whimpers his name in a way that has Viktor coming hard, spilling into his hand. He reaches over to the nightstand to grab some tissues, cleaning himself up with a small sigh.

“Yuuri?” he asks, as he tucks himself back into his sweatpants and tosses the tissues.

Yuuri clears his throat. “ _Are you… decent_?” he asks.

“Yeah,” says Viktor.

He hears a sheepish chuckle on the end. “ _I’m sorry, I should’ve warned you before that… well. The sound of your voice — I got carried away_.”

“I loved it,” replies Viktor simply.

There’s a small pause between them, and then Yuuri speaks up again. “ _We shouldn’t do this again_ ,” he says, quietly, regretfully. “ _I’m pretty sure Minako has someone listening in on my calls_.”

Viktor laughs at that, snuggling into his comforter. “Yeah,” he says. “But maybe when I come over, though?”

There’s a thoughtful hum. “ _We don’t need to have phone sex when you come over_ ,” Yuuri points out.

“I didn’t mean phone sex,” replies Viktor.

Another pause. And then the prince huffs in laughter. “ _Yeah_ ,” he says. “ _I’d like that_.”

And then it hits Viktor just how soon the twenty-ninth will be. “So in a week,” he says, a little breathlessly. “I’ll be seeing you in a week.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” says Yuuri, his voice thick with sleep. “ _I’m already counting down the days_.”

Viktor laughs at that. “Now I really can’t wait,” he says. “You should sleep, Yuuri.”

“ _Mm_.” Yuuri hums contentedly. Viktor imagines him leaning back against the pillows in a large and beautiful room, flushed and spent under the covers. “ _Good night_.”

“Good night,” agrees Viktor, “moyo solnyshko.”

* * *

**Japan’s Young Crown Prince to Celebrate 24th Birthday with Family and Friends**

Caroline Bennett  
BuzzFeed Staff

Crown Prince Yuuri of Japan, who shook the Internet in June this year with #CrownPrincesDayOff, is turning 24 tomorrow.

The Imperial Household Agency has released a statement saying that Crown Prince Yuuri will be celebrating his birthday with a press conference and a quiet party with only his closest friends and family in attendance. Also to commemorate his birthday, the gardens of Akasaka Estate will be open to the first 2,000 lucky members of the public after his press conference.

So instead of hitting up Tokyo like he hit up Saint Petersburg, Crown Prince Yuuri will be spending the night in. However, according to the Instagram account of the crown prince of social media (and the Crown Prince’s best friend), Phichit Chulanont, there may be a very special guest in attendance at the heir apparent’s birthday bash this year.

Why yes, that photo does in fact show the Crown Prince posing in a Russian fur hat. Could it be a reference to his not-so-mysterious-but-still-very-secret beau, Russian journalist Viktor Nikiforov? Vote now on your phones.

(And we voted so hard the palace caught on fire and burned down)

Well, whether the rumours are true or not, we at BuzzFeed wish Crown Prince Yuuri a very happy 24th birthday!

————

**Related Articles:**

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  * **Inside Russian President Lilia Baranovskaya’s Messy Divorce With Editor Yakov Feltsman**



* * *

“Yuuri, you’re doing that thing again,” Phichit Chulanont says, his voice slightly singsong.

Yuuri blinks, looking up from where he had been fiddling with his phone. “What thing?” he asks.

“The thing where you refresh your phone every three seconds to make sure your boyfriend’s flight gets in on time, and then ignore everything your best friend has been trying to tell you for the past ten minutes,” replies Phichit, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.

Yuuri stares at him. “...I’m sorry?” he manages.

“Yeah, I know, I still love you.” Phichit laughs easily, leaning against Yuuri’s shoulder with a devious grin. “Listen, staring at the arrival info isn’t going to make the plane come in faster. Or make us less stuck in traffic.”

Yuuri groans, checks the time. “We’re going to be late,” he whines, putting his head in his hands.

“It’ll take him a while to go through customs,” Phichit points out.

“But we’ll also be late getting back to the palace for the press conference.” Yuuri sighs, pressing his forehead against the window of the Toyota Century limousine currently inching down the traffic-clogged expressway towards Haneda International Airport. To their left, the sea sparkles in the early morning light, the sun climbing ever higher in a mockery of the time they’re wasting by being stuck in traffic.

“I’m sure Minako can keep the press waiting,” replies Phichit. “Besides, this is what you get for not ordering a police escort. We’d be through all the traffic in no time with several police sirens accompanying us.”

“I didn’t want to make this a bigger deal than it is. Why can’t I just pick him up from the airport like a regular human being?”

Phichit laughs. “I think if you ask the purists, they’d say you’re not a regular human being, you’re like, at least a symbolic demigod or something.”

Yuuri pulls a face. “If I were actually a demigod, none of this would even be a problem.”

Phichit reaches out and pats him on the arm. “Seriously Yuuri, I know it’s kinda useless to tell you not to worry, but you really shouldn’t!” he says, grinning. “Viktor will understand. Or he’ll be too tired to care.”

Yuuri sighs, checking his messages. The last one from Viktor had been sent last night, just before his flight took off. _On my way to Tokyo now! See you when I land_. It was followed by several hearts, each one making Yuuri’s own heart flutter a little faster.

He puts his phone down again, resisting the urge to check the flight status again as he turns to look out the window once more. All around him, high rise buildings reach out to the sky, intersected in between by elevated train rails. Yuuri rarely gets the chance to take the trains in Japan, mostly because of security concerns, but he has enjoyed it every time he does. Travelling via train during his Eastern European goodwill tour had been a bit of a nightmare in comparison, though he would’ve liked to ride the Trans-Siberian Railway sometime.

There’s a lot of things he would like to do, though not all of them are feasible. After all, the Kunaicho have to approve his travels, careful now more than ever in the construction of his image. He knows the conservatives in the organisation disapproved of his excursion in Saint Petersburg, and continue to disapprove of his correspondence with Viktor. If everything goes as planned, they will have more to disapprove of by the end of the day.

Yuuri is simultaneously terrified of and excited at the prospect.

Finally, their car pulls clear of the traffic, just as Yuuri’s phone pings with a message from Viktor. _Just landed! I’m so tired._ It’s followed by several laughing emojis. Yuuri smiles.

 _Had a good flight_? he asks.

The response takes a moment. _I tried to sleep, but there was a crying baby in the economy seats right behind me. Earplugs were useless_.

 _Oh no_ , Yuuri remarks, grinning a little. _We just got out of traffic, so hopefully we’ll be there to get you soon_.

 _Okay_. A smiley. _Can’t wait_.

Yuuri smiles the rest of the way to the airport.

Usually, his trips to the airport take him to the private hangar where his chartered jet waits for him, and usually that’s how he’s picked up as well. But the flight he’d booked for Viktor had been a red-eye flight on a commercial airline, though he had at least managed to get him a seat in business class. Viktor should’ve been able to sleep on the plane, but maybe he had miscalculated the probability of there being crying infants within hearing distance.

In any case, the fact that Viktor had flown commercially meant that they had to go pick him up at the airport. Minako had volunteered to go in his stead, citing the fact that him being seen with Viktor in public would lead to rumours and speculation, but in the end Yuuri had put his foot down and insisted on picking the man up himself with as little pomp and circumstance as possible. Minako had reluctantly agreed.

(Phichit had just tagged along because he was Yuuri’s friend. Even the conservatives had gotten used to him after one too many holiday visits at Togu. After all, even the most stringent believer in the elevation and untouchability of the Imperial Family wouldn’t dream of alienating the heir of one of the largest media conglomerates in the world, not if they ever wanted to work in public relations ever again.)

(Yuuri is ridiculously glad Phichit is his friend.)

Their car pulls up to the international terminal, and the bodyguard riding with them goes to open the door. Yuuri and Phichit both don their shades before stepping out of the limousine, heading into the arrivals section of the airport. As they take their spots behind the cordon in front of the arrivals exit, Yuuri turns and sees several airport security guards coming out and joining the bodyguards that had come with them.

It only takes five minutes after that for the passengers of the flight from Saint Petersburg to start appearing in the arrivals hall, and three minutes after for Viktor’s silver-haired figure to appear among the families with their trolleys and the businessmen with their wheeled briefcases. Then it’s only a minute before he sees Yuuri, and his face breaks out in a half-tired, half-ecstatic grin.

Yuuri runs to him in less than thirty seconds.

Viktor’s arms are as welcoming as he remembers, and slipping back into them feels like slipping into a well-loved glove. The embrace is still all too brief, though — if Yuuri had his way, he would’ve have remained in Viktor’s arms forever.

But instead he pulls away, shaking Viktor’s hand almost as an afterthought. Viktor laughs at that, before taking Yuuri’s hand and pressing a kiss to the knuckles.

“Your Highness,” he says, his tone playful and flirtatious. Yuuri feels his cheeks flaring up at that, and Viktor laughs, free and easy, before spotting Phichit and the bodyguard and heading over to them. “And you must be Phichit Chulanont! I’m so glad to be able to meet you, too.”

“I don’t get a kiss on the hand?” asks Phichit. Viktor chuckles, shaking his hand.

“I’m sorry, I only kiss royalty,” he replies with a wink. Phichit pulls him into a hug, mouthing ‘I like him’ at Yuuri over Viktor’s shoulder. Yuuri feels his cheeks grow hotter.

“Let’s go back,” he says, as the bodyguard takes Viktor’s bag from him. “There’s still a lot to prepare —”

He’s suddenly cut off at the sight of Viktor waving at someone who’s taking pictures of him on her phone. In that moment, part of him understands exactly how Minako feels on a regular basis.

“Come on, Viktor,” he calls, striding off towards the exit. Viktor catches himself, offers a quick apology, and trots over with a slightly chastised grin. Yuuri feels his previous annoyance melt away at the excitement in Viktor’s blue eyes, and slows down to let Viktor walk with him out of the terminal.

There’s still a long ride back to the palace, after all.

* * *

**minabelle** reblogged from **the-royalistas** :

**royalspotters**

Crown Prince Yuuri of Japan spotted greeting journalist Viktor Nikiforov at Haneda International Airport in Tokyo, Japan, on 29 November

————

**fyeahviktorandyuuri**

OH MY GOD YOU GUYS THIS IS NOT A DRILL VIKTOR NIKIFOROV IS VISITING HIM IN JAPAN FOR HIS BIRTHDAY #VIKTUURI IS REAL

————

**yuuriforov4eva**

they’re so cute together what the heck!!! look at the way yuuri smiles when viktor hugs him. i’m so dead

————

**irate-hearse**

if they get married my crops will be watered and my family fed

————

**mayday**

call me cautious but i don’t think it’s right to assume anything about them until they confirm it themselves? it just feels like a gross invasion of their privacy. still, this is such a pure picture omg 10/10

————

**minabelle**

im gonna KERMIT

#crown prince yuuri #viktor nikiforov #viktuuri #fuck you guys i ship it

* * *

Viktor drifts in and out of sleep on the drive to Akasaka from Haneda Airport. At one point he dozes off with his head lolling against Yuuri’s shoulders, and wakes up to Phichit’s grinning expression and a photo on Yuuri’s phone of the two of them sleeping. Yuuri makes a face at it when Phichit shows him, but makes no move to delete it.

He really does want to stay awake for the drive through Tokyo — they’re supposed to pass by Tokyo Tower on the way, after all — but the flight had been so long and the baby in the seventh row had been so _loud_ and Yuuri is so soft in the seat next to him. The prince’s form is fairly athletic — he knows that fairly well — with just a hint of softness about his midsection that sometimes becomes more pronounced after festivals and banquets. Viktor wants to see that belly again, wants to worship every inch of Yuuri’s body like the divine form it rightfully is.

But that will come later. Before Viktor even realises it, they’re driving down a tree-lined avenue at the edge of some magnificent leafy green park. He has to marvel at the complete lack of snow in Japan, despite it already technically being winter. Yuuri had told him to pack for a milder climate, but he hadn’t really comprehended it until he stepped off the plane and was hit by how warm Tokyo was compared to Saint Petersburg.

“This is the Akasaka Estate,” says Yuuri, having noticed him waking. “I live in one of the palaces here.”

“There’s more than one?” asks Viktor.

“Yeah.” Yuuri laughs. “I used to live in a different one, but then my sister eloped and became a commoner, and I became next in line for the throne.”

“Wow,” says Viktor. He pauses. “Wait, why’d she become a commoner?”

“There’s this really old law,” Phichit chips in, “where women in the Imperial Family become commoners if they marry commoners. Notice that it doesn’t apply to men.”

“It takes forever for any changes to be made to laws about the Imperial Family, though,” says Yuuri, shrugging. “It took the Diet several decades to pass the law allowing women to inherit the throne in the first place, and they only passed it the year before I was born.”

Viktor hums. “But I’m guessing your sister was taking advantage of the marriage law, since you said she eloped?”

Yuuri nods. “She hadn’t wanted to rule. So now the country’s stuck with me.”

Phichit rolls his eyes. “Yuuri, how many times do I have to tell you that Japan _won’t_ mind being stuck with you as Emperor? You’ll probably go down in history as the hottest one, anyway. The golden age of Emperor DatAss.”

Yuuri snorts. “I feel like if anyone else ever said that to me, I would have them arrested.”

Viktor smiles, turning to look out the window at the passing trees. They’ve turned onto a small driveway now, passing through a security checkpoint before pulling up in front of a sleek, modern-looking mansion set against the lush greenery of the estate park just beyond. A set of cherry trees with foliage dyed in autumnal shades of gold and brown sit just before the porte-cochère leading into the mansion.

The car stops, and Viktor opens the door for Yuuri, only to be met with the disapproving stare of the bodyguard who had tried to do the same. Viktor feels his face burning with embarrassment as he gingerly closes the door to the limousine after Yuuri.

“Oops,” he says. The man scrutinises him impassively for a moment longer, before heading around to the trunk to fetch his luggage.

The woman Viktor had seen at the press conference is there to greet him alongside another younger woman, whose hair is tied in a ponytail. Yuuri exchanges several bows and greetings with them before looking over at Viktor. Viktor reaches for his bags, but the guards are already carrying them off somewhere else. Helplessly, he turns to the two women instead, copying Yuuri’s bow as best as he can.

“Hi,” he offers, unsure of what else to say. “I’m Viktor. Thanks for letting me stay here.”

“It was His Imperial Highness’s idea,” says the younger woman. “I’m Yuuko Nishigori, the head of His Imperial Highness’s household.”

“Minako Okukawa,” adds the older woman. “I’m His Imperial Highness’s Grand Master.” She pauses. “I remember you from Saint Petersburg.”

“As do I,” agrees Yuuko, and Viktor realises with a dawning sense of horror that he and Christophe may have beat up some of their men on the cruise.

“I really wish our first meeting had been under better circumstances,” he blurts out. “I’m so sorry about that.”

Minako’s expression is impassive. “As the English say, it is water under the bridge,” she says, and though her tone is not unkind, Viktor suddenly has a feeling he knows why Yuuri had absconded without leave back in Saint Petersburg all those months ago.

He jogs a little to catch up with Yuuri, entering the elegant foyer of the palace as he does. Yuuri smiles at him as Viktor pulls up by his side, his brown eyes sparkling in the lights of the enormous, paper-screened hallway.

“Welcome to Togu Palace,” he says. “I hope Minako and Yuuko didn’t give you too much trouble.”

Viktor laughs and shakes his head. “It wasn’t any problem,” he says. “Anyway, I brought a birthday present for you. It’s in my bags, though, where…?” He trails off, raising an eyebrow at Yuuri, who nods and begins to move down the hall. Viktor quickly follows him, looking around him at the handsome wooden panelling and the crisp minimalist decorations.

“This really isn’t what I expected when I heard you lived in a palace,” he admits.

“No, I know.” Yuuri shrugs. “The Crown Prince used to live at Akasaka Palace, which is a little ways… that way.” He points off to the side. “That one’s a lot more like the palaces in Europe, and it’s got marble floors and everything. But that’s the State Guest House now.”

“You’re not putting me in your guest palace?” teases Viktor.

“You want to live a little ways that way?” asks Yuuri, his expression amused. Viktor laughs.

“Of course not. I don’t want to do the walk of shame across an entire park.” That earns him a laugh from Yuuri, as well as a light smack to his forearm which he pretends is painful for a brief moment, before slipping his other arm around Yuuri’s waist and pulling him closer.

“I like this one better, anyway,” he says, looking down at the prince with all of the emotions that he had bottled up in their months of separation. “It’s simple and comfortable, and to the point.”

Yuuri exhales a little at that, looking around briefly before rising on his tiptoes and pressing a kiss to Viktor’s cheek. Viktor turns his head a little, and Yuuri’s lips move to the corner of his mouth.

“I missed you,” Yuuri says after a moment. “Though I think that goes without saying.”

“Yeah,” agrees Viktor, pressing their foreheads together. For a moment, they stand in the hallway, breathing together, before Yuuri stiffens and takes a step back, taking Viktor’s hand and leading him to a room just off the main hallway.

The room has a view of the estate gardens, its flowers and trees gleaming in the morning light. The bed is decently large and well-appointed, and there is an ensuite bathroom. Viktor’s bags have already been brought in; it takes him only a moment of rummaging before he surfaces with a small wrapped parcel, handing it to Yuuri.

“Happy Birthday, moyo solnyshko,” he repeats. Yuuri smiles as he takes the parcel, shaking it a little as if to ascertain what it is.

“What’d you get me?” he asks.

“Open it and find out,” replies Viktor, so Yuuri carefully tears back the paper, revealing a poodle’s face on a wooden matryoshka doll.

The prince makes a cooing noise. “Oh, it’s _adorable_!” he exclaims. “Are they all poodles?”

“Of course,” says Viktor. Yuuri beams, pressing the dolls to his chest.

“Thank you,” he says, and leans in to kiss Viktor’s cheek. “I love it.”

Viktor feels as if his heart has sprouted wings. He’s come all this way, and Yuuri is already so close, but there’s still something that’s holding them back. It’s almost like he’s a teenager again, trying his hardest to keep his hands to himself as he gets ready to meet his date’s parents.

And almost as if he’d read Viktor’s mind, Yuuri smiles at him. “Ready to meet my parents?” he asks, and Viktor jaw goes slack in shock.

* * *

Yuuri by nature is a bit of a worrywart, he knows. It had been especially bad when he was a kid, but even now there are days where he can hardly leave his bed because of it. His doctor maintains that it’s some sort of anxiety disorder, but the Kunaicho seem to like to conveniently forget about it until it becomes detrimental to their schedules.

In any case, this tendency to think of worst-case scenarios means he’s thought up practically every single way in which Viktor Nikiforov meeting his parents can go wrong.

This isn’t one of them, because it’s going a lot better than he’d ever anticipated.

His parents had come by for the day for a birthday visit, intending to stay from his press conference in the morning all the way to the birthday dinner in the evening. They both look impeccable, as always — his father is in a suit for the occasion, and his mother is in a corresponding kimono.

Viktor, on the other hand, has barely had half an hour to roll into a suit and make himself look presentable for the Emperor and Empress, and now he’s laughing and chatting with Yuuri’s mother as if they had been long-lost friends. Had he not been the Crown Prince, Yuuri would have felt jealous.

Instead he fidgets behind his back, looking hopefully over at his father for any sign of approval or disapproval, but Emperor Toshiya seems to be engrossed in the interactions between his wife and Viktor. A chamberlain offers some tea for Their Majesties, and Empress Hiroko offers Viktor a cup as well.

Yuuri looks over at his father again, who catches his eye with a small smile and a nod, and Yuuri could almost slump in relief. As it is, all he can do is nod back, a subtle sign of thanks for a subtle approval of their relationship.

All that remains, then, is the press conference. When Minako shows up and nods at him, Yuuri strides over to where Viktor is sitting with his mother, and asks:

“Would you like to sit with the press for this conference?”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “Any particular reason why?” he asks.

Yuuri makes a mock-thoughtful expression in lieu of a shrug. “We almost never have foreign journalists at these press conferences,” he says after a moment. That gets Viktor’s attention, and a grin slips onto his face.

“Do you mean to say I’m _special_?” he purrs, and Yuuri’s cheeks heat up because the man is saying this in the presence of his _parents_ , for god’s sake. But Empress Hiroko only chuckles at that, encouraging Viktor to join Yuuri with a nod.

Yuuko escorts Viktor to the press room, then, and Minako takes Yuuri aside to brush down his suit and give him his notes.

“These are the questions the journalists will be asking,” she says. “And these are the answers we would like you to say.”

Yuuri nods as he skims the cards, noticing the usual neutral wording and bland platitudes. With a smile, he tucks the cards into his breast pocket. “Thank you, Minako-san,” he says. “For this, and your other years of service.”

Minako looks at him inscrutably for a moment, before nodding towards the door into the press room. Just as Yuuri reaches it, however, she says:

“Happy Birthday, Your Highness. I only wish you your happiness.”

Yuuri smiles at that, and enters the press room to the flash of cameras.

* * *

**Press Conference by His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince on the Occasion of His Birthday**

Date: 29 November 2017  
At the Residence

_Questions from the Imperial Household Agency Press Club_

Question 1:

**Please share with us some of your impressions and thoughts about official events and duties in society or related to the Imperial Family that have occurred this year, and your hopes for the future.**

Over the past year, there have regrettably been numerous natural disasters occurring around the world which have impacted or claimed many lives. In North America alone, the wildfires and heatwaves in California, the hurricanes in Texas, Florida, and the Caribbean, as well as the earthquakes in Mexico have caused widespread damage to property and loss of life. Within Japan, I am saddened to hear that the people affected by the Kumamoto Earthquake last April still live in uncertainty, and I keep them in my thoughts at all times when I cannot be there in person to assist them in their rebuilding efforts. Similarly, the survivors of Typhoon no.10 in Hokkaido and Tohoku at the end of last August are also in my thoughts and prayers.

This March marked the sixth anniversary of the Great East Japan Earthquake, and I was able to visit once again the prefectures affected to see the progress on reconstruction. While many people have been able to rebuild their lives in the wake of this disaster, still many others are living in temporary housing with uncertain aspirations for the future. Once again, these people remain in my thoughts as we continue to rebuild together as a nation.

However, in happier news, I was pleased to hear about the world record-breaking free skate score set by our new World Champion in men’s single figure skating, 17 year old Kenjirou Minami. It is exciting to follow his growth and development as an athlete and I hope to see him succeed again and again in the future.

In relation to the Imperial Family, I would like to comment that my sister, Mari Suzuki, and I have reconciled. While she cannot attend the events of my birthday today, she has sent me her well-wishes for the coming year, and I am gratified to receive them. I wish her and her husband Takao all the best.

And as for myself, in addition to my goodwill trip through Eastern Europe this year, I was also able to visit Saga Prefecture, as well as engage in friendly visits with the people at the Imperial Villa in Hasetsu. I was deeply moved upon my arrival in Hasetsu to see thousands of people smiling and waving at me by the side of the road, even in the summer heat. Seeing firsthand the happy faces of the people of Hasetsu reminds me of the duties and responsibilities I have to them as their Crown Prince to ensure that they can continue to pursue happiness and peace.

————

Question 1a:

**My question is related to your comment regarding Kenjirou Minami’s victory at the Figure Skating World Championships this year. Your Imperial Highness has expressed before an interest in attending the figure skating events for the upcoming Winter Olympic Games in Pyeongchang. What are your hopes for Japan in terms of the Winter Games, as well as for Tokyo 2020?**

I send my congratulations to skater Minami for his world record at Helsinki, as well as for his victories thus far in the Grand Prix Series, and I look forward to supporting him in December at Nagoya. I continue to follow skater Minami’s career with great interest, as figure skating has been a childhood passion of mine which has followed me into adulthood.

As for my hopes for Pyeongchang, I have every faith that each athlete selected to represent Team Japan will perform to the best of their ability. With regards to Tokyo 2020, I believe we will showcase to the world the best that Tokyo, and the rest of Japan, can offer.

————

Question 2:

**This year marks the fifth year since your sister’s elopement and subsequent departure from the Imperial Family. In light of your recent reconciliation, what are your thoughts on the current status and future role of the Imperial Family?**

The year before my birth, the Imperial Diet passed the Imperial Succession Law which enabled female members of the Imperial Family to ascend the Chrysanthemum Throne. However, this law did not abolish the Imperial Household Law which required female members of the Imperial Family to relinquish membership upon marriage to a commoner. My older sister Mari, formerly the Crown Princess, understood the consequences of her actions when she chose to elope with her husband Takao Suzuki five years ago.

As a result, the number of members of the Imperial Family now rests at fifteen, with the majority of them women. Mari’s departure has led to numerous questions on our part about how to divide the ever-increasing public duties and responsibilities amongst the rest of us, which in turn leads to questions about the future role of the Imperial Family. I recognise that I am the only one guaranteed to remain in the direct line for the throne, and I shoulder this responsibility every day with great diligence and pride. I therefore must express my deepest appreciation to the people of Japan for their continued support and encouragement.

————

Question 3:

**In this past year you have visited numerous countries in Eastern Europe, including Russia, Ukraine, Romania, and Bulgaria. Could you share with us your thoughts on your visit to these countries, and which of them you enjoyed the most?**

Each in its own way was unforgettably beautiful, as the people of all of these countries had received me as their guest with many happy smiles and friendly words. I continue to be extremely humbled by the kindness I have been shown in each of these countries, and I hope to be able to extend the same kindness and courtesies to those who would wish to visit Japan. All nations have much to learn from each other, as each have their good parts and bad. Understanding and seeing the good in each other is, in my opinion, fundamental to the fostering of peace amongst peoples.

————

Question 4:

**In June of this year, you performed an act that may be perceived as reckless to some, but was largely positively received by the global community. Is this behaviour which we can continue to expect from you as a future Emperor?**

If you are referring to my little holiday, then I stand by my remarks made at the press conference at the time. It is important for a Prince to understand the needs and wants of the common people, both at home and abroad. I am grateful to the world for their acceptance of my actions, however reckless they may have been.

Moving forward, however…

I do not know what sort of Emperor I will become, as I can only hope my father His Imperial Majesty continues to reign in good health. As such, I cannot comment on the future in such a way. However, I do know what I wish to do in the present moment, and it is to speak not from prepared statements, but rather from my own heart.

Regarding the elopement of my sister Mari, I know that from an official standpoint, such reckless behaviour on her part was unbecoming of her birth as a member of the Imperial Family. However, from my personal standpoint, and especially in light of my experiences this year, I find that I cannot fault her for answering the call of her own heart. My sister chose love instead of following the rigid and narrow path set for her by the law — if she were to ascend the throne, she would have either done it alone or married to a noble most likely not of her choosing, and then have to devote her time and energy into producing an heir. I know my sister well, and I know that that is not a path she has ever wished to take. Despite the victory granted by the Imperial Succession Law, the roles allotted to women in the Imperial Family continue to be inflexible and antiquated.

As we move forward both as a family and as an institutional symbol of Japan, I must exhort my fellow family members as well as the Imperial Household Agency to examine more closely the values we hold closest to our hearts. There is no strength to be found in clinging to obsolete traditions as the rest of the world progresses on; that path will lead us nowhere except into decline. I believe there is still a place for our Imperial Family in this new world order, but discovering exactly where it may lie is a question I am still seeking the answer to.

I know that my critics have called me reckless and irresponsible, but the path to where I am today has helped me understand that if I am to be a good leader, I must not only carry out my duties to the best of my ability, but also balance responsibility and hard work with life and love. For almost twenty-four years of my life, love has been a very difficult emotion for me to put into words. But I have come to realise now that the support and understanding extended to me — by my family, my friends, and by the people of this nation and of the world — is in fact love. So now that I know what love is and am all the stronger for it, I only hope to be able to prove it to the world by faithfully serving my country as its Crown Prince in the years to come.

Thank you for your understanding.

* * *

Despite the fact that the press conference had been conducted in Japanese, Viktor has the distinct feeling that something very unconventional had happened during it. During the last half of Yuuri’s final question, the room had gone almost deathly quiet as he spoke in a heated voice, more passion in his words in that moment than for the previous five answers combined.

(Viktor has the distinct sense Yuuri is alluding to him, because the Crown Prince’s eyes don’t leave his throughout the last few sentences of his speech, and even though he doesn’t know what is being said, the awed silence of the press gives him half an idea of what it could be.)

Yuuri then thanks the audience, gets up, and bows, and the press rises to its feet in thunderous applause. Viktor’s not sure if that’s usual Imperial press conference protocol, but he follows along anyway, watching Yuuri’s overwhelmed expression flush beneath the glare of a thousand cameras.

Just before he leaves, Yuuri turns to Viktor and smiles. Viktor’s knees wobble a little, but he somehow manages to stay standing until the rest of the press have filed out of the room.

Phichit comes to find him soon after, linking his arm with Viktor’s. At his heel is a toy poodle, looking almost like a miniature Makkachin except for the fact that it yaps at a high pitch and nips playfully at Viktor’s ankles. Viktor laughs, stooping to pat the dog’s head. It flops down immediately, presenting its belly for scratches.

“This is Vicchan,” says Phichit. “Funnily, the two of you actually share a name.”

Viktor raises an eyebrow as he bends down to oblige the little poodle. “Yuuri didn’t name the dog after me, right?”

“I don’t think so,” replies Phichit, rolling his eyes. “He says it’s because of Victor Hugo, but he’s had Vicchan since he entered Gakushuin Junior High, so I think he was pulling my leg.”

Viktor chuckles, and straightens up to link his arm with Phichit’s again. Vicchan trots after them as Phichit steers them out of a side door to the mansion, bypassing a guardhouse as they head into the Akasaka Estate gardens.

“Usually in the spring and the autumn the Emperor and the Empress have garden parties here,” says Phichit as they head out on a path towards a small pond. “Otherwise the estate is mostly closed to the public. However, because it’s Yuuri’s birthday, he asked that the park be opened today!”

Viktor nods, looking out at the tourists gathered in the park enjoying the late autumn sunshine and taking photos. Phichit snaps a selfie of the two of them once they’re clear of Togu Palace, and asks Viktor if he could upload it. Viktor nods.

“You know,” says Phichit once the picture has uploaded, “If you’re ever interested in a change of scenery, I could probably put in a good word for you at the Tokyo office of _You Only Live Once_ magazine. You know, since my family’s company owns it and everything.”

Viktor’s brows furrow, though he’s not quite sure if he’s hearing things right. “What are you suggesting, exactly?” he asks.

“Nothing!” Phichit’s face is the picture of innocence. “Like I said, I was just asking on the off chance you wanted to, you know, get out of Saint Petersburg for a while. Explore new options.”

“Like Tokyo?” asks Viktor weakly.

“It’s on the table,” replies Phichit with a wink. “I happen to know that Celestino Cialdini, the editor-in-chief of _You Only Live Once_ , is a _huge_ fan of your article on government surveillance.”

Viktor laughs. “But is the Imperial Household Agency as fond?” he wonders.

“No,” says Yuuri’s voice from behind him. Viktor turns to see the Crown Prince standing there, his hair in a disarray from evidently having run out to the gardens from the palace. Still, he looks devastatingly beautiful in his well-cut suit. The tie, though —

“I can’t believe you wore a tie that ugly on national television,” says Viktor.

Yuuri snorts. “I put my neck on the line for you at that press conference, and you’re commenting on my _tie_?” he asks incredulously, though his eyes are sparkling. “You’re a man full of surprises, Mr Nikiforov.”

“I love keeping people on their toes,” replies Viktor sweetly. Yuuri hums, and then he extends a hand. Viktor takes it, and Yuuri entwines their fingers. Viktor hears Phichit’s phone camera.

“You really should meet my friend Christophe; the two of you would have a lot in common together,” he tells Phichit, who laughs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The Thai man’s grin, however, is nothing short of shit-eating as he begins heading back in the direction of the palace, Yuuri’s toy poodle following him eagerly. “I’m hungry, Vicchan, how about you? Let’s go get some snacks.”

And then Viktor and Yuuri are alone, in the middle of a park crowded with tourists, and as Viktor looks at the mischievous sparkle in his prince’s eyes, he has the sudden suspicion that —

“You planned all of this, didn’t you?” he asks. “Inviting me over, introducing me to your parents, holding a press conference that seems to have, uh, deviated from your script. And this,” he gestures at the tourists gawking at them just a couple feet away, “opening the park to the public.”

Both of Yuuri’s eyebrows raise in complete feigned innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, completely deadpan even as he echoes his best friend’s words.

“Hm.” Viktor smiles anyway, feeling unbelievably light as he leans in closer to Yuuri. “So how mad would I be making your minders if I asked you out, Yuuri Katsuki?”

“ _Unbelievably_ , incandescently mad,” breathes Yuuri, his lips only centimetres away. Viktor licks his own, his heart skipping a beat as he notices how Yuuri’s eyes darken at that.

“Perfect,” he says, and closes the distance.

* * *

** Like a Fairytale: An Exclusive Interview with Crown Prince Yuuri of Japan and Viktor Nikiforov **

by LUCY LEROY, Staff Writer

The story of the unconventional romance between Crown Prince Yuuri of Japan and his partner, investigative reporter Viktor Nikiforov, has already been the subject of numerous thinkpieces on the continued relevance of Japan’s Imperial Family, the longest-reigning monarchy in the world, to the modern epoch. The Imperial Family has long been shrouded in mystery, mostly due to the short leash placed on its members by the Imperial Household Agency.

However, some of that leash has been loosened in recent months due to several impassioned remarks made by the Crown Prince during a press conference held on his birthday. In his response to his final question, the Crown Prince diverted dramatically from his script to rebuke the Imperial Household Agency for its continued adherence to antiquated mores, which he said had led to the sudden departure of his older sister Mari Suzuki from the Imperial Family. To add insult to injury, the Crown Prince was later photographed in the gardens of Akasaka Estate kissing investigative journalist Viktor Nikiforov, who had hosted the Crown Prince for a day during his goodwill visit to Saint Petersburg earlier in the year.

As part of the Crown Prince’s efforts to make himself more accessible to the public, he and Nikiforov have consented to an exclusive interview with yours truly for _You Only Live Once_ , in his residence at Togu Palace in Tokyo.

[ _Photos courtesy of Christophe Giacometti_.]

 **LL:** How long have you two been together?

 **HIH:** Well, that depends on which date you pick as the start of our relationship.

 **VN:** Last June. I’d definitely go with last June.

 **HIH:** Then it’ll be eight months in a couple of days.

 **VN:** Wow, how time flies!

[ _They both laugh._ ]

 **LL:** Tell me more about your first meeting.

 **VN:** I was walking my poodle Makkachin by Vladimirskaya Church in Saint Petersburg, and he was sitting on one of the benches just outside. He told me my dog was adorable, and things sort of got out of hand from there.

 **HIH:** He was a very generous host. [ _laughs_ ] He spent the entire day with me and was very attentive to all of my wants and needs, as well as an excellent guide to the city.

 **VN:** You sound like you’re reviewing me on Airbnb.

 **LL:** Was it hard at first to keep things long-distance?

 **HIH:** A six-hour time zone difference is pretty difficult, yeah.

 **VN:** We’re technically still long-distance. But I’m working on moving to Tokyo by the end of April.

 **HIH:** He’s going to be a writer for _Stammi Vicino Quarterly_ in Japan. They couldn’t bear to part with him!

 **VN:** Very few people can bear to part with me.

 **HIH:** Not a modest bone in your body.

 **VN:** I’ve always maintained that being your boyfriend means I am the Official Hype Man for the Crown Prince.

 **HIH:** I thought that was Phichit's job. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was secretly on Minako [Okukawa, the Crown Prince’s current Grand Master]'s payroll. [ _laughs_ ] But we’re getting off topic. Basically yes, it has been hard being so far from one another most days of the year, but we’re working on moving Viktor to Tokyo so that he won’t be too far.

 **LL:** If Viktor moves to Tokyo, will he be staying with you at Togu Palace?

 **HIH:** We agreed that it would still be important for him to have his own space, so no, not yet.

 **VN:** ‘Yet’ being the operative word.

 **HIH:** We’re looking into apartments for him in Tokyo. We want him to be close to his work in Shibuya as well as Togu Palace. I’m honestly quite excited; I’ve never been apartment-hunting before!

 **LL:** Besides eventual cohabitation, any other long-term plans on the table?

 **HIH:** I wouldn’t say 'eventual cohabitation’, actually, because I’m pretty sure the [Imperial Household Agency] would throw a fit if I moved into an apartment with him, as tempting as it sounds. The security concerns alone would be very costly.

 **VN:** And the only way they would let me live long-term at Togu Palace would be if we were to get married, but that’s something we’ll tackle later down the line.

 **HIH:** Yes, there are many other considerations on that front.

 **LL:** I’ll get back to that topic in a moment. In the meantime, what’s your favourite thing about each other?

 **HIH:** His dedication. He is so passionate about the things he loves, and he pursues them with diligence and care. I only aspire to be able to fulfil my duties with the same attentiveness.

 **VN:** Wow, this is hard! Okay, well, his constant penchant for defying everyone’s expectations. Being with Yuuri is a nonstop chain of surprises.

 **LL:** Okay, this might be harder: what about something about each other that needs improvement?

 **HIH:** This is something Viktor knows about already, but he has tendency to say things without thinking it through completely, and it has led to some miscommunications between him and the [Imperial Household Agency]. But like I said, he knows this fault, and is trying his hardest to be mindful of his speech.

 **VN:** Yuuri very frequently underestimates himself. I hope that by being by his side and supporting him through everything, I can help him gain some confidence in his own abilities.

 **LL:** Favourite thing to do on a night in?

 **HIH:** Watch a movie. We both love commenting during movies.

 **VN:** We tried to play Mario Kart together once, and nearly started another Russo-Japanese war.

 **HIH:** You totally cheated.

 **VN:** It’s not my fault you got shelled! [ _They laugh._ ] Besides that, we also call our friends and play with Makkachin and Vicchan. And we cuddle.

 **HIH:** He’s usually the little spoon.

 **LL:** Okay, now back to your comment about marriage. If the two of you were to get married, you two would be the first official non-reproductive same-sex marriage in the Imperial Family. Traditionalists often maintain that marriages in the Imperial Family should be focused on producing a biological heir, in order to continue the line. What are your thoughts on that?

 **VN:** Wow, you were dying to ask this one, weren’t you?

 **LL:** Maybe.

 **HIH:** In all honesty, our discussions about marriage have not been particularly extensive, as I believe that it is more important that we pursue our respective careers first. My mother [Her Imperial Majesty Hiroko, Empress of Japan] sacrificed a lot when she married my father [His Imperial Majesty Toshiya, Emperor of Japan], and I do not ever want to see Viktor give up a promising career for my sake.

 **VN:** My Yuuri is so self-effacing. [ _laughs_ ] I have told him time and time again that I am proud to stand by his side in whatever capacity he will have me. But he has made it clear that marrying into the Imperial Family is not a fairytale; it requires great thought and sacrifice. As such, we’ve agreed to see where my writing takes me first before we discuss marriage in a more serious light.

 **HIH:** We’ll get married when he wins a Pulitzer.

 **VN:** [ _laughs_ ] But as for the topic of heirs, we know that there are numerous alternative options open to us that we would be willing to explore. However, that would be a discussion that can wait until we are further committed to one another.

 **LL:** So besides marriage and starting a family, do you have other hopes for the future? For yourselves individually, or together as a cople?

 **HIH:** I hope we will be happy.

 **VN:** [ _kisses him_ ] Couldn’t have said it any better myself.

**END.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> un de perdu, dix de retrouvés = "one lost, ten found", or "there are more fish in the sea"
> 
> Akasaka Estate: Most members of the Imperial Family do not live at the Imperial Palace in Tokyo, but rather in one of the various palaces on the Akasaka Estate. There is the Akasaka Palace, which is the State Guest House now (but used to be the Crown Prince's residence), which is modelled off European palaces. There's also Togu Palace, which is where the Crown Prince now lives, and other estates where the Prince Akishino, Princess Tomohito of Mikasa, and their respective families live.
> 
> Press Club: The Imperial Household Agency keeps a very tight leash on the reporters who ask questions of the Imperial Family members at their press conferences. People can get kicked out for asking something too candid or deviating from script. Questions are usually sent in way in advance, too, so everyone knows what's going to be asked.
> 
> Imperial Succession: In my AU, they passed a law amending the 1947 Imperial Household Law which changed the succession rules from males-only to everyone. However, they didn't change the portion of the law that makes female members of the Imperial Family leave upon marriage, which means Yuuri is still the only guaranteed heir in line for the throne. This will become relevant... in the sequel.
> 
> Yes. I'm planning a sequel. There's just too many ideas! In the meantime, since this still closes a significant arc in the story, I'd like to do some quick thank-yous to William Wyler for making _Roman Holiday_ , and my friend Katie for showing it to me and our other friends (and letting us ruin it for her the first time around with all the dick-sucking ring jokes). I would also like to acknowledge... well, I guess I have to acknowledge the Imperial Household Agency because they have all of the info I needed. And I guess Ben Hills too, for all the rest of the info. And I of course would like to acknowledge all of my friends on Tumblr and Discord who listened to me complain and whine about writing. Especially Wrath, who enabled this thing in the first place, and Robbie and Liz, who kept enabling it while I was writing. Thank you all so much and see you next level!

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction, and as such any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental. Please don't put me on a watchlist just because I decided to write 40k of shade about the Imperial Household Agency, especially regarding their treatment of Crown Princess Masako.
> 
> Well it was only 60% shade; it’s also 30% travelogue and 10% me showing off what a slut I am for modern royalty but hey
> 
> Thank you to [history-rover](http://history-rover.tumblr.com/) and [sebuckwheat](http://sebuckwheat.tumblr.com) for beta reading and russian-picking, respectively!
> 
> I can also be found on [Tumblr](http://omgkatsudonplease.tumblr.com/) if you want to keep yelling about Viktuuri


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